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THE LOTUS THRONE OF NIRVANA 





' 


. 














































THE LOTUS THRONE 

OF 

NIRVANA 

BY 

WALTER M. HAUSHALTER 



LUCAS BROTHERS 

PUBLISHERS 

Columbia, Mo. 







COPYRIGHT, 1924, 


BY 


LUCAS BROTHERS 


PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 


MAY 20 *24 


©C1A792504 


1 / 


“Lord Buddha, on thy Lotus-throne, 

With praying eyes and hands elate, 

What mystic raptures dost thou own, 

Immutable and ultimate? 

What peace unravished of our ken, 

Annihilate from the world of men? 

How shall we reach the great unknown 
Nirvana of thy Lotus-throne ?” 

Sarojini Naidu, in The Golden Threshold . 



CONTENTS 


Chapter Page 

I La Belle France ..... . 3 

II Chamonix .. 16 

III The Crystal Gazer . 27 

IV When Greek Meets Greek ........ 47 

V Affaire D 3 Amour ...._........ 72 

VI Intermezzo .. ........... 92 

VII The Aphrodite Soiree ........ _112 

VIII Ashes and Flowers..136 

IX The Roof of the World . --... .155 

X “Impossible West Pas Un Mot 

Francais ...178 

XI A Midnight Voice ..195 

XII The Seance .212 

XIII The Vengeance of the Gods.231 

XIV Affaire Du Coeur - 247 

XV The Lotus-Garden .263 


















La Belle France. 


Chapter I. 

La BELLE FRANCE. 

B ORDERING the Boulevard St. Germain 
there slumbers a romantic quarter of Paris 
where now for two centuries time has stood 
still and age has garnered no power to chill. 
Passing through one of the narrow archways 
from the Latin Quarter you are straightway in 
a romance of Dumas with heroic D’Artagnan 
leaping from one steed to another. A sharp and 
ancient vivacity in the atmosphere stings the 
pulse and stirs the blood. The district, one time 
the home of the Parisian aristocracy after its 
removal from the Marais, marks as little change 
today as the sea itself. 

The Rue de Grenelle is quite the most pic¬ 
turesque of the older streets. Its Hotel de Beau- 
harnais in days agone boasted the residence of 
Josephine. The Rue des Saints-Pares still lures 
the loiterer with old curiosity shops. A toss 
away lived Madame Recamier, visited each day 
by her faithful Chateaubriand. And, has one’s 
sense of novelty grown stale, there stands not far 
removed the cabaret of Le Pere Lunette, famous 
for the kind of thing that keeps newspaper scan¬ 
dal-mongers in fine raiment. Along with the 
3 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


Montmarte and the Boulevards des Capucines 
and des Italiens the locality is frequented by 
foreigners who love to see the sun rise, before 
they go to bed. 

Behind a sphinx stone front in the Rue de 
Grenelle was an apartment occupied only at odd 
seasons of the year. Barred gates with a brace 
of caparisoned lackeys envisaged the front with 
the expression of a feudal castle. The idea was 
strengthened by the inevitable concierge, that 
Parisian blend of Cerberus and the Recording 
Angel, and the bane of all foreign visitors. 
Curiosity seekers were informed it was the home 
of Raymond Gray, an American. 

Por several years Gray, following the death of 
his father and the assumption of his California 
estates, had selected to live in Paris. With an 
artistic career to chisel out he had successively 
tried Rome, Seville, and London. They all 
paled, sluggish and disenchanting, compared to 
this holiday city of the world. Besides, Gray 
had strong ideas on the stony, inaccessible self¬ 
absorption of the Anglo-Saxon. He preferred 
the warmth of the Celt. As for America? He 
loved the land itself and its capabilities. Its 
average citizens, however, were gudgeons, with 
only a rudimentary apparatus for things of the 
mind, and following too close on the hoof beats 
of King Midas. 


4 



La Belle France 


At three o’clock of a chill April afternoon 
Gray awoke in his apartments in the Rue de 
Grenelle. In another hour he had achieved a 
bath in scented water, donned dressing gown, 
submitted to breakf ast, and lighted his cigarette. 
One look out upon the bleak sky and the doleful 
wind gusts made him close the shutters and re¬ 
turn to the cheery blaze of the backlog. Lan¬ 
guidly he reached for a volume of Anatole 
France, At The Sign of the Reine Pedauque } 
and as languidly returned it. 

From the fireplace came the drone of soothing 
bass and a vibrant nervous tenor of flames spit¬ 
ting upward. The clear blue light from the 
drift-wood found twinkling and facile reflections 
in the polished andirons. With breakfast dis¬ 
patched and the unction of creature comforts 
indulged what was the wail and roar of a frozen 
world outside? 

Inchwise the logs burnt out their length and 
resolved into charred outlines of their sometime 
selves, paling to embers and ashes, their zest 
soon sunk to satiety and annihilation. It was a 
picture book of man’s days to make a soul shrink 
and shudder. Gray sat for a long spell of rev¬ 
erie, eyes fathom deep in the glowing coals, 
mind adrift, blandly and passively brooding. 

It had grown his habitual afternoon pastime 
5 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


lately to put reason and will into a torpor thus 
and indulge airy phantasy in the whimsical vein 
of Queen Mab. 

A heavy ring sounded at the entrance and 
Gray roused hurriedly to snap on the lights. The 
next moment the door flung open unceremonious¬ 
ly and a young man entered. 

“Gaylord! Gaylord Powers! God bless my 
eyes! Welcome to La Belle France again! Gay 
Paree has open arms for thee! When did you ar¬ 
rive ?” 

“Took the Continental Express out of London 
last night. The blasted thing dawdled for hours 
in banks of fog near the Channel port. These 
English and French trains—‘oh deah!’ The 
frightful speed of the Greek horse entering 
Troy! Now, the Broadway Limited—!” 

“Please! Don’t spurtle that old emotion about 
America, Gaylord. I know what you mean 
about the Broadway Limited. We always quar¬ 
rel on that theme. Your American divinity is 
momentum, a brutal god, and worse in effect 
than Isis on the Egyptians. Sit down and let 
me look at your handsome self.” 

The artist’s voice vibrated with cadences of 
rich affection. He offered a cigarette case of 
burnished gold to his companion, poised a ciga¬ 
rette himself, and lighted it with consummate 
flourish. 


6 



La Belle France 


Raymond Gray might have been thirty years 
of age. His look, however, radiated an atmos¬ 
pheric maturity that suggested having seen the 
world and all things in it. His body was sleekly 
groomed and artful with studied movement, his 
face powerful in the eyes and jaw, and olive- 
dark as of Latin Europe. 

Gaylord Powers was slightly the junior. A 
head shorter than his friend, he wore a polish of 
well-bred distinction. His face and figure were 
broadly proportioned; a wealth of fair hair 
tossed back from his forehead and habitual smiles 
broke up the rough facial lines into kindliness. 
He gazed critically about the apartment now and 
his lip curled. 

“Same old thing, eh, Raymond? Lark all 
night, sleep all day. French novels and absin¬ 
the, pretty fopperies and the serious business of 
sport. Gay, artistic, debonair, improper! It’s 
asinine, weak, and un-American!” 

“There you go, Gaylord, talking in cast iron 
epigrams again!” laughed the artist carelessly. 
“If I didn’t know you so well you’d provoke me 
to screams. Consider my words soberly, child. 
If you want to be a real novelist and man of the 
world, live in Paris. See Paris, know Paris, love 
Paris, and you will live. All the other cities on 
the footstool are as Sodom and Gomorrah. As 
7 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


for my sleeping 1 by day, does not God say that 
the evening and the morning were the first day?” 

Powers gazed about the studio at bits of sculp¬ 
ture and painting, pottery and tapestry, Span¬ 
ish leathers and laces, gold work and ivories. 

“You live a life, Raymond, of palled and 
voluptuous gloom. Paris is for the gastronome 
and gourmet. IVe taken a chair outside the Cafe 
de la Paix and watched them sip their aperitif 
and indulge the weak vice of staring at women. 
Their indecent songs of the cabarets, their cold, 
cynical appraisement of women, their coarse and 
disgusting liberties, their mots a double entente 
—come, Raymond, you know you are arguing 
a bad case. In America we’re working out a 
cleaner conception of life. In America—” 

“In America, Gaylord, they are afraid of 
facts. They avoid facts, persuade themselves 
that facts are not there. The difference between 
America and France is the difference between 
nakedness and nudity. America hides her vices 
and France is honest. In New York you assume 
a virtue if you have it not. In Paris we assume 
a vice if we have it not. It’s not that the Paris- 
iens are degenerate. They flout the virtue of 
honesty and the Anglo-Saxon resents it. In fact 
most of the reputed haunts of vice in Paris exist 
for the foreign clientele.” 

8 



La Belle France 


Superfine, Raymond! But you shamble. 
There was a time when France had a soul. That 
was the France of the Crusades. France the 
Cathedral builder. France of Rheims and 
Amiens, of Bourges and Beauvais. Once it had 
a Renaissance passion for beauty. That’s all a 
legend. Now she’s embalmed in her monuments 
and what soul she has left is a cafe-hunter. 
When France rejected the Reformation and the 
Convention decreed the Cult of Reason, when a 
ballet dancer throned on the high altar of Notre 
Dame and statues of Voltaire and Rousseau 
were set in the niches of the saints, France died. 
As for Paris of today—the sun rises on the Bois 
de Vincennes and sinks into the Bois de Bou¬ 
logne. There are the Grand Prix and the Consul 
Municipal at Longchamp and a flouting of 
everything we have wrested from original an¬ 
archy. After Montmarte, Raymond, one is glad 
to get to the sweet winds and sunshine of Cali¬ 
fornia or Kentucky. These noxious odors here 
are as old as Babylon.” 

“A laugh from Tom Jones clears the air,” 
smiled the artist lighting another cigarette. “You 
simply have no taste for the joys of life. The 
Salvation Army and Mr. Moody will exclude 
most of Paris from a census of the New Jerusa¬ 
lem. But I prefer our light-heartedness of the 
9 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


three parts of all Gaul to the sordid goodness of 
your average Englishman. If you are interested 
in writing real books, Gaylord, I commend to 
you La Francaise of Brieux— 

“No more French literature for me,” the 
novelist answered haughtily. “It’s rotten to the 
core. Flaubert’s Madame Bovary. Gautier’s 
Madamoiselle de Maupin. Daudet’s Sapho . 
And now here you have Anatole France. His 
brutal scepticism is pagan. A good deal of his 
blather should be excluded from every library. 
He’s as had as George Moore! When I write my 
novel—” 

“If you don’t take my advice and get life into 
your novels, Gaylord, you’ll have them read by 
Sunday-School teachers or refused altogether by 
the publishers. What you call Americanism is 
a pure rainbow chase and you’ll get all ragged 
and footsore at it. Look into the heart of Paris 
that Voltaire says is clairvoyant. Forget Bun- 
yan and your separation of the law of flesh and 
the law of mind and leave that Puritanical folly 
to nuns and monks. Read French—” 

“I read French nothing!” answered Powers 
with a gesture of disgust. “They’re all veneer 
and gloss, correct manners and a triumph of 
sense. Do you mean to read Madame de Chev- 
reuse who makes La Rochafoucald say that few 
10 



La Belle France 


honest women are not real sick of their trade? 
Or is it Monsieur Sarcey’s talk of the rejection 
of a suitor because he had no mistress?” 

“Hush! Hush! Gaylord. We have good 
women in France, too. Don’t forget Joan of 
Arc, Charlotte Corday, Madame Roland, Ma¬ 
dame Curie. France is the female nation of the 
world and her traits are of that sex. Be chival¬ 
rous toward them, strong man, and pity their 
weakness. Now, to come to the important mat¬ 
ters. When do we leave for Chamonix?” 

“Forgive my quarrelsome flings, Raymond,” 
laughed the younger. “We go tonight if it 
suits you. Sister’s party will be there to meet 
us from Rome. And I propose in Chamonix 
to put some crimson blood in your veins. Who 
knows, maybe through the grace of atavism 
you’ll achieve Americanism yet.” 

Two hours later Gray and Powers hurried 
through the gates of the railway concourse, a 
garcon at their heels, staggering under fur coats 
and cameras and leather bags. Inquiring out 
the train for Cluses they were directed to the 
night express on the Paris, Lyons, and Mediter¬ 
ranean. Another hour and their train blazed a 
blurred highway through the dusky outskirts of 
Paris toward the French Alps. 

Seated in the de Luxe dining cafe Gray or- 
11 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


dered dinner and then spread a map upon the 
table, pointing a tapering finger. 

“Chamonix is there, Gaylord. You’ve been 
wild for a sight of the Alps and your American 
blood ought to speed up now. Coret has put his 
cottage there at our disposal and that should 
make for comfort.” 

“Always comfort, Raymond! Forget it! Look 
at this time-table. We arrive Amberieu in time 
to see the sun up. You need a breath of the 
dawn and sunrise colors for your brush. I’ll in¬ 
struct the porter to drag you out.” 

“Perfectly right, Gaylord, dear hoy,” laughed 
the other with wealth of affection. “If I’m to 
usher in the New Naturalism in Art I must get a 
smell of earth in my nostrils. Chamonix Is the 
finest place in the world, Coret says, for atmos- 
sphere and chiaroscuro. If getting up early in 
the morning helps I shall go to the absurd length 
of getting up early in the morning.” 

“From what you tell of Coret he must be a 
question mark,” replied Gaylord. “Do I un¬ 
derstand he plans the overthrow of present con¬ 
ventions in painting? To create a new School 
of Impressionism? You laugh up your sleeve at 
my poor ignorance of art, Raymond. But I’m 
present if it all means getting next to nature.” 

“Yes, yes, Gaylord,” replied the companion. 

12 



La Belle France 


He waxed eloquent now and gave secondary in¬ 
terest to the dinner served. “Coret’s school of 
art—or I should say, the school of Coret and 
Gray, for Coret puts my name on equality with 
his own. Our school of Art goes back to the 
Greeks. And beyond. Physical perfection was 
the ideal of the Greeks, in art and religion. 
When Christianity waged war on heathenism it 
attacked Greek art and thought. It went to as¬ 
ceticism, mortifying the flesh, and all that rot. 
It grew ashamed of the human body, feared to 
paint the nude. Even Michael Angelo and 
Raphael had to go to Byzantium for their 
models. Painted saints in long robes, halos 
round their heads, painful ecstasy on their faces. 
It was not heaven, nor hell, nor earth. Certainly 
not art.” 

“Eat your dinner, Raymond,” interposed the 
other. “It’s getting cold.” 

“Let me finish what I was saying,” went on 
the artist. “You know the Pre-Raphaelite school 
of fifty years ago? Rossetti, Holman Hunt, 
Burne-Jones, and Watts? They struck against 
the stilted insincerity and pompous soullessness 
of the Academy. But they didn’t go far enough. 
Now Coret and I have the public by the ears. 
I Naturalism shall be the rage. Keep your eyes 
open for it, Gaylord. Coret and I will make 
I history.” 


13 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


“Strength to your elbow, Raymond,” replied 
the younger. “Before I fold this map, look you 
here. A short way out of Amberieu we get into 
Bellegrade. Then the line crosses the Rhone 
River. At St. Julien for six or seven miles we 
skirt the western base of Mont Saleve. Then 
here. Just before Annemasse we cross the River 
Arve at the Pont d’ Etrembieres. If you want 
a view over a picturesque country get up early. 
The porter says we can get breakfast at Anne¬ 
masse. What’s the matter with you, Raymond? 
You aren’t listening to what I say.” 

“Hush Gaylord,” replied the artist. “Did 
you notice the veiled woman that just left the 
coach? She sat with her woman companion a 
table away. The veils were too heavy to dis¬ 
tinguish their features. The one in black spoke 
in heavy voice like a man’s. I can’t get over the 
impression, she listened to everything we said. 
Just a bit curious, that’s all. Go ahead.” 

“Well,” continued the younger, “after leav¬ 
ing Annemasse the route winds round the eastern 
base of Mont Saleve. Sister says it’s a prospect 
worth your eye. Approaching Bonneville there’s 
a conical mountain called the Mole to be seen on 
the right bank all the way to Cluses. We make 
Chamonix early in the afternoon. Thus saith 
the guide book.” 


14 



La Belle France 


“If you think Paris cheats, you may find satis¬ 
faction in the Alps, Gaylord. Coret insists,” di¬ 
lated the artist, “that Chamonix beats anything 
in America. Don’t laugh at me, you rogue.” 

“These French are spoiled, Raymond. Spoiled 
with conceit, and we Americans spoil them. Tell 
Coret he doesn’t know the San Bernardino, or 
the Yosemite.” 

“Really, now, I can’t get that veiled woman 
off my mind, Gaylord. There was something 
fascinating about her. She wore a delightful 
fragrance, the aroma of the lotus, as I live.” 

“I’ve heard you say that same a dozen times of 
other women,” remonstrated his companion, with 
gesture of impatience. “Let’s get women off 
our minds while at Chamonix, Raymond. Give 
yourself to your art of Naturalism. Women are 
the creatures that put artificiality into us men 
anyhow. As for me, I want to spend these 
few days climbing the mountains and tasting the 
tonic of the Alps. Violet and Lillian will be 
there. They’ll be all the women we want. Cer¬ 
tainly all they’ll want us to want. Let’s call it a 
day and say good night.” 


15 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


Chapter II. 

CHAMONIX. 

I T was late the following morning when Gray 
arose. He sat in the observation coach and 
was joined shortly by his companion. 

“It’s sweet of you, Gaylord,” laughed the rich 
voice, “to refrain from saying you’ve been up 
three hours. Don’t mention it for love’s sake. 
Or art’s sake.” 

“Look out the window!” cried the other, ignor¬ 
ing the subject. “Those blue waters are the 
Arve that flows through Chamonix and into the 
Lake of Annecy. Look into the cool valley. At 
those cottages on the slopes.” 

A succession of varied pictures hastened past 
the window. Hills were green with the promise 
of golden harvests. The sun smiled through a 
cloudless sky upon a laughing land, fertile in 
vineyards and rich in pastures. 

The travelers sat comfortably while the train 
climbed smoothly and swiftly up the slopes. As 
they hurtled now through the subalpine hills of 
Savoy, nature gave tokens of convulsed scenes 
beyond. The cool valleys and peaceful villages 
were left behind like a fleeting vision of the 
16 



Chamonix 


fancy. The engine plunged into the dark gorges 
of Arve, then upward toward Aiguilles of Mont- 
anvert. The world became sombre then with 
gray rocks and white snows. The eyes of the 
travelers found it colorless at first and dull, after 
the rich tints of the foothills. 

A dozen times in an hour the artist peered 
down the length of the observation car at two 
veiled women. Each time he as hurriedly glanced 
away and pretended disinterestedness. 

It was early afternoon when the companion 
travelers dismounted at the quaint Alpine station 
of Chamonix. Among a score of other passen¬ 
gers were the two women with a child of five 
years. As the carriage for the Hotel du Paris 
bobbed over the rough highway the artist whis¬ 
pered to Powers. 

“I learned who the woman was last night. 
They occupied the compartment next my own. 
She has a voice like a man and talked like an 
American. I swear she pronounced her R’s like 
a Westerner. Late in the night the porter called 
a telegram for Madame Madorie. I’ve heard 
of her in Paris. I wonder at which Hotel she 
stops.” 

The carriage drew up at Hotel du Paris. 

“Raymond Gray,” answered the artist to the 
clerk at the desk. “And this is Gaylord Powers. 
We have engaged reservations. Has the party 

17 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


of Mr. and Mrs. Gentry and daughter arrived?” 

Information was given that the Gentrys were 
expected from Rome the following day. An 
hour later Gray and Powers had removed the 
dust of travel and descended into the Rue Na¬ 
tional. They ambled about to survey the vil¬ 
lage. 

Chamonix is known for more than the small 
cosmopolitan mountain resort. A dozen fash¬ 
ionable hotels line the Rue Nationale and the 
neighboring streets. Wealthy French, Italian 
and English colonies stud the mountain slopes 
with summer cottages. Down where the rib¬ 
bons of streets entwine in the village square rapt 
visitors pause to survey the bronze statues of 
De Saussure and Balmot, sculptored figures 
heroic and symbolical, every gesture pointed to 
the skies and the mountain tops. A caravan of 
tourists wander in and out, artists with canvas 
and brush, wanderers with far-away look in the 
eyes. 

Powers paused and swept a hand of survey 
over the scene. 

“Chamonix is a name for you to conjure, 
Raymond. The word sings and dances. It 
agitates my fancy and stirs memories in the 
chambers of my brain. Is there any spot in all 
France more celebrated by the bards than Cham¬ 
onix of the Alps!” 


18 



Chamonix 


They glanced from the tiled roofs of the ham¬ 
let to the foliage of pines surrounding, and be¬ 
yond to Mount Blanc. The great fortress lifted 
its head as though declaiming to the world pro¬ 
tection of the Savoyard village nestled in its 
foothills. 

“Painters and poets do their work here,” went 
on Powers impassioned. He disregarded the 
blase smile of the artist. “The lovelorn Byron 
fondled this retreat to his heart. Shelley 
breathed ozone for poetry here. And Chateau¬ 
briand. Theophile Gautier. Alexandre Dumas. 
The summit of Europe is for the upper reaches 
of thought, as well. Didn’t Turner and Buskin 
come here for harmonies of color?” 

Artists, poets, painters, enthusiasts try to de¬ 
scribe the vista that opens from Chamonix and 
find it unattainable. Wild solitude, tragic and 
awful grandeur, the agitated imagination trying 
to grapple with the lost history of the world, 
dizzy heights piercing the heavens, light super¬ 
natural before which all else seen and heard are 
pigmy in comparison. The immensity exercises 
its dominion over the understanding, and then 
one falls back into silence. 

There one stands in a topsy turvy world, cre¬ 
ated by convulsions of nature, a fragment of the 
primeval earth. To picture it, the brain has to 
19 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


coin or counterfeit words weird as apparitions, 
spiritual and evanescent as spectres, rude and 
rugged as the rocks. At Chamonix one draws 
near the limits of the conceivable. The traveler 
in that rare clime is suddenly drunken with joy. 
He is uplifted with hopefulness and tastes, to 
the full, delights that are dreamlike in extrava¬ 
gance. The mountain dizziness invades one with 
a new and mysterious poetry that has a subtle 
narcotic effect of opium. 

The artist stood unmoved and smiled indul¬ 
gently on the boyish explosions of joy from the 
novelist. 

“Let’s go to the Montanvert before you look 
up Coret’s cottage, Raymond,” said Powers. 
“I’m wild to get a close-up at those peaks I mean 
to climb. We can stop at the cottage on our re¬ 
turn.” 

A half hour later the two drew up at the 
famous Montanvert Hotel. Powers stood silent¬ 
ly gazing through this gateway into the temple 
of the French Alps. 

In the afternoon light a look from Montan¬ 
vert at the outlines of Charmoz and Petit Dru, 
and beyond to Grepon and Mt Blanc, pro¬ 
vides the sensation of a City of dreams. It is a 
city girt and defended with inaccessible walls, 
crowned with steeples and spires and mosques, a 
20 



Chamonix 


city of past centuries of creation. Its inhabi¬ 
tants are forbidding giants that lift their spears 
and halberds above the ramparts and frown 
down upon profane feet that approach. It is a 
harmony that translates itself into lines of music. 
Stately and solemn and martial music. One in¬ 
stinctively listens to the beauty of the world. 

Powers pointed the artist to the massive Petit 
Dru among the populace of peaks. 

“There’s subject matter for your art of nat¬ 
uralism, Raymond. Millet or Delaroche could 
get robust themes for their brushes. I confess 
this gives me a new slant at La Belle France.” 

The ancient rock lifted its head, weathered by 
ages, burnt by the sun, worn by the slow action 
of rain and frost. Embittered and weary in the 
struggle with the air the huge pinnacle of earth 
showed its backbone bare and fleshless. Time 
there has carved an intricate network of wrinkles 
showing the old age of our planet. And there 
nature had given reign to her mad freaks and 
let loose her fanciful caprices. 

Gigantic stairs descend from the peak to the 
base of the mountain, like steps reaching down 
from an Acropolis. Plateaus and towering 
crags, jumbles and masses of rock throwm hap¬ 
hazard, astonishing works of destruction and 
peculiar ornamentations, suggest the labors of a 
21 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


race of Titans in ages gone. Labyrinths of tort¬ 
uous passages, dark defiles and sharp openings, 
pits sunk deep as the abyss, pointed Gothic pin¬ 
nacles lifted high as heaven, slanting roofs, 
strange domes of outlandish temples, gloomy 
halls as gloomy as dungeons, facades of ancient 
castles, broad galleries of an enormous fortress, 
dismantled citadels, ruined battlements, cracked 
and broken obelisks, crumpled minarets, pillars 
lifting slender hands up to pure skies. 

The novelist drew in his breath audibly. 

“This is architecture!” he cried. “Alice in 
Wonderland would stand on her head to conceive 
it. It is what your Japanese artist Galio calls 
life movement of the Universal Kokora. Ex¬ 
cuse my explosions, Raymond. Sister says I 
slop over and stand in the suds. But it’s not my 
nature to repress.” 

To gaze at the heights of the Grand Charmoz 
from the vantage of Montanvert adds another 
appeal. At its foot giant monoliths lie wearily 
against the mountain as though to keep it from 
toppling into the valley. As the eye lifts from 
the base it leaps from surprise to surprise. It 
is another Matterhorn. The lower steps of the 
temple are heaped tumultuously together and 
break in confusion. 

The effect of this Alpine cathedral is poetic. 

22 



Chamonix 


The lungs feel the caress of something altogether 
pure. Endless ladders, like those of Jacob’s 
dream are let down from the spaces. One can 
live a whole life thus between dawn and sunset. 
The span of existence has been lengthened. The 
gates of life have been reopened and through the 
portals a sight of fresh goals is given and the 
spirit grows rich in ambition. 

“Look, there beyond Charmoz and Petit 
Dru!” cried Powers, leveling his field glass. 
“That’s Grepon! It’s the most difficult climb in 
the Alps. Some say the toughest in the world. 
See! That obelisk of sheer rock. Half hidden by 
Charmoz. Mummery first climbed it a half cen¬ 
tury ago. I mean to try odds with that old 
monster in a few days. By Jove! I can see the 
dizzy spot where I shall stand!” 

The virgin peak of Grepon was half hidden 
as though jealously by Charmoz, a monarch that 
monopolizes the efforts of daring mountain 
climbers. It stands the most skyey buttress of all 
the gigantic chain that reaches up toward Mt 
Blanc. Petit Dru and Charmoz are but rude 
stone steps that lead up toward this Parthenon 
of Grepon. 

Beyond the snow glaciers at Grepon’s foot the 
forests stretch up in serried ranks and contend 
for possession of the soil. Time, the sculptor has 

23 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


worked at Grepon a mighty citadel of the Alps 
quarry. The chisel has hewn and splintered and 
molded for ages. The forms and angles and 
towers and blocks suggest a sculpture and an 
architecture of periods unknow to history. 

On dark days Grepon veils itself with thick 
threatening clouds and casts them off again with 
capricious suddenness. But in the sunlight its 
iron changes to alabaster, then rose and trans¬ 
parent. Its crest bristles with spears and hal¬ 
berds as though giants were defending the walls 
and peering into the gaps. Vast staircases lead 
downward over dizzy ledges into the void, like 
Dante’s circles in Purgatory. The walls glitter 
like gold in the sun. And way below, the gul¬ 
lies are filled with deep blue shadows, liquid as 
water colors. 

“To sit on this comfortable veranda,” said 
Powers contemptuously shrugging shoulders at 
the loungers, “and admire is one thing. To con¬ 
quer those heights is another. These lazy sight¬ 
seers lie on soft pillows and read by lamplight of 
the heroic climbers. They enjoy aesthetic shivers 
from dangers not their own. But to climb up 
the smooth cliffs and rocky teeth, to grip your 
alpenstock and lift your head high, to dangle a 
thousand feet above a yawning graveyard, to 
feel terror and yet to laugh, to climb after the 
24 



Chamonix 


brain grows sick, to climb domes and sit like a 
crown on high—I tell you, Raymond!—that’s 
life!” 

“Say, you’re eloquent!” laughed the artist. 
“This embrace of the mountains gets me, 
too! As pleasant as other embraces. It’s like 
breathing a few moments on the roof of the 
world. But you’re welcome to climb the rocks. 
I’m satisfied to paint my impressions. Now the 
sun has disappeared an hour, Gaylord. We 
must hasten if we are to look up Coret’s cottage. 
Coret said— ” 

The artist swung on his heel quickly to go and 
brandished his cane vigorously. He was dazed 
the next instant to find he had collided cane, 
body, and all with a passing woman. He drew 
back apologetic and confused. It was the wo¬ 
man of the veil and her companion. 

“A thousand pardons, Madam—ah Madame 
Madorie,” said Gray, removing his hat. “It was 
awfully stupid of me. I’m sorry. I —” 

The woman merely bowed her acknowledg¬ 
ment and disappeared without a word into the 
hotel. The artist looked at Powers seriously, 
and then broke into a smile of whimsicality. 

“Stupidly silly introduction I gave myself,” 
he mumbled. 


25 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


“Come on, Gaylord! Let’s look up Coret’s cot¬ 
tage. It’s on the slope close to the Montanvert 
Road.” 

As they returned to the village the soft shad¬ 
ows of evening were descending like a curtain 
on the valley of Chamonix. 


26 



The Crystal Gazer. 


Chapter III. 


THE CRYSTAL GAZER. 


OU will light the incense, please, Jane,” 
commanded Madame Madorie. “The 
party of Mrs. Gentry made appointment 
here for four o’clock. The chimes will strike in 
ten minutes. These Americans, you know, have 
always a madness to be on time. Now we must 
hurry. Dear! Dear! Why it is you put lavender 
on the charcoal? Ugh! It stirs memories I do not 
like. The sickly odor reminds my nostrils too 
much of absinthe. Now pour a little attar-of- 
roses in the brazier, please. We have tried it 
often and it offends no one. Qr Narcissus. 
There is a fragrance to love. But lavender! 
Ugh! It stifles me!” 

Madame Madorie’s tone was partly command 
and partly friendship. Her voice had uncanny 
masculine depth. The maid’s obedience was 
alert and without reply. The English of the 
superior woman was of foreign accent with a 
queer emotional turn of intonation. Her words 
were spoken with an upward inflection, as though 
the native speech suffered mutilation from 
French, Italian, or Portuguese. The accent 
27 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


might have been any one or none of these. The 
speech was so markedly peculiar that it com¬ 
pelled attention. Her words now were dropped 
out in rhythmic monotone, as from one who 
practises abstraction and lives in the far remote. 

“At four o’clock,” caressed Madame Madorie 
to herself. She stood blinking quizzically into a 
tiny black hook. “There is Mrs. Gentry. Yes. 
And Mr. Dunbar Gentry. Yes. And Lillian 
Gentry. Daughter, I suppose. Yes. And— 
and then there is Gaylord Powers. Ah! What 
a charming name! And—Mr. Raymond Gray. 
Sometimes names have meaning. Sometimes 
they do not.” 

Madame Madorie still looked toward the book 
in her hand. Her gaze was not at it, nor in it, 
but through it, and nowhere, as one scrying into 
a crystal. She was dressed with obvious intent 
of mystification. Diark folds of hair lay coiled 
on the top of her head and the accentuated slant 
of her eyes was almond like and Oriental. A 
garment of purple-black wound sinuously about 
her person from shoulders to feet. It was tied 
at the slender waist with a sash and faintly sug¬ 
gested a Roman toga. 

The woman might been twenty-five, she might 
have been thirty-five years. Her beauty was dis¬ 
passionate with mentality in the ascendant. 

28 



The Crystal Gazer 


The lure and charm that men—and women, 
too—felt in Madame Madorie resisted analysis. 
It could perhaps best be ascribed to the atmos¬ 
phere of delicacy that enveloped her like fra¬ 
grance. Her skin was pale with a cultivated 
paleness, her features refined and chaste. But 
the chastity of mouth and shoulders and hands 
was not without lure. Her form was neither 
petite nor large. The slender body and the 
chiselled face bore the marks of inner strength 
and voluntary subjection of the desires to the 
spirit. In conversation her face glowed with 
spirited sensibilities. 

“We should not have so much light here, 
Jane,” said the woman turning from the black 
book. “People think too much in the glare of 
light. Or else they think not enough. Turn off 
one of the bulbs in the stand-lamp. Please. 
That is better. Thank you. Now hurry to make 
ready yourself, girl. They will be here in a 
moment.” 

The maid was a woman of thirty. Her airy 
little habits of body were in a thousand ways 
phenomenally like those of her mistress. Per¬ 
haps from years of unconscious imitation. Her 
chestnut hair and sharp eyes with alabaster skin 
and perfect teeth sparkled under the veiled lights 
of the room. They seemed to compete with one 
29 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


another for attention while slender, deft fingers 
set everything in its artistic order. She breathed 
an indefinable impression of the Oriental, as did 
Madame Madorie. With one last survey of the 
hangings and a smile of approval, she disap¬ 
peared quickly through a slit in the curtains. 

Every appointment of the place was well cal¬ 
culated to inspire mystery. Not a ray of light 
from the world was permitted to enter. As 
Madame Madorie turned to inspect the room her 
shapely white shoulders stood out markedly 
against the black velvet hangings. One enter¬ 
ing suddenly might have thought it a draped 
figure turned face to the wall. Then the statue 
came suddenly to life. Slender artistic fingers 
reached out and touched the velvet in gentle 
caress. 

With an air of accomplished savoir faire the 
woman crossed now to the brazier in the corner. 
The smoke of perfumed incense was gently as¬ 
cending. She paused. Her bosom rose as she 
breathed in slowly and deeply. Long eyelashes 
fell like curtains and the head was poised to 
spiritualize the sense of the nostrils. Slowly 
she surveyed the huge divan and the easy chairs, 
the rich Oriental carpets, the dimmed lights, the 
door that opened into the ante-room and the 
world without. 


30 



The Crystal Gazer 


A table with rich covering and a few books 
stood in the center of the room. A large glass 
ball, of perfect transparency, rested on the table. 
As Madame Madorie stood over the crystal and 
gazed upon its polished surface it became the 
center round which all else in the fantastic room 
revolved. On the far side of the table stood a 
velvet covered box. It was an object of curiosi¬ 
ty, done in deep, flaring scarlet, and occupying 
a cubical foot of space. 

Madame Madorie stood gazing fixedly ahead 
through the faint lights, waiting. Her hands 
glided softly and unconsciously over her eyes 
and face and neck and fell upon her shoulders, 
as though gently caressing someone or being 
caressed. It was after the manner of an affec¬ 
tionate nature eternally crying for expression. 
A faint buzz sounded through the opening to the 
rear. The woman quickly drew herself together 
and looked attention toward the door. A low 
hum of voices was faintly heard from without. 
The next instant the maid appeared dressed in 
luxurious gown and slippers of faint green that 
added to the bewitchery of the scene. 

“Let them wait for a moment,” said Madame 
Madorie. “Impatience is not a bad thing, in 
other people. It aids our profession. Expecta¬ 
tion is a good thing. These curiosity buyers get 
31 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


what they expect, and we must make them ex¬ 
pect much. Now you may let them in. Say 
nothing. Look nothing. Remember the value 
of silence. Yes.” 

Madame Madorie seemed to be speaking to 
herself or the surrounding air, rather than to the 
woman who waited attendance. She disappeared 
quickly through the curtains to the rear as the 
maid moved to the door. The following moment 
a flood of light swept the room. From the ante¬ 
room a buzz of inquiring voices could be dis¬ 
tinguished. The voices soon died into silence. 
The light of the sun was again shut out, and the 
door closed behind a party of four. 

Two women and two men made up the group 
that stood blinking in the semi-darkness. One 
was a girl of twenty, the other a mature woman 
of thirty-five. A youth of twenty-two or three 
solicitously held the arm of the younger woman. 
A man of sixty-five, with the pretense of offer¬ 
ing help, leaned on the arm of the older woman. 
The maid bowed a sylphlike retreat through the 
aperture and the four were left to the solemn 
possession of the room. Each one seemed afraid 
of his own voice in the uncanny environment. 
After a prolonged stay of ominous curiosity the 
venturesome voice of the youth broke out. He 
began with a nervous little laugh that added to 
the queemess. 


32 



The Crystal Gazer 


“Some place this, Lillian! A fellow has to 
squint hard to see. After looking at the snows 
of Mount Blanc for a half hour, my eyes are daz¬ 
zled out of my head. To come into a cave like 
this makes one blind. Ha! Ha! Funny place, 
isn’t it?” 

“Oh! but Gaylord!” chirped a girlish voice. 
“Isn’t it just wonderful! Look at the spooky 
lights! And, oh, the lovely curtains! What is 
that smoking thing over there? Oh, I’d like to 
stay here all day. It’s just like the little caba¬ 
ret down at the Brevoort. Don’t you remember? 
Oh, isn’t it just grand! Just grand!” 

“Yes, ain’t nature grand!” laughed the young 
man. 

“This is a devil of a place,” wheezed the old 
man between coughs. “But you would come 
here, Violet! You must know that in Paris or 
New York or Rome or any other decent place 
these institutions can’t run! Preying on the 
credulity of the people. A thing like this can 
come to Chamonix or the watering places and 
relieve light-headed fools of their money. But 
it’s illegal. And the law doesn’t deal with it 
gently. And people who come here assist the 
damfoolery.” 

“But I asked for it, Dunbar, dear, as a com¬ 
fort to myself,” replied the woman with a hand 
33 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


of pleading on his arm. “Am I not to be con¬ 
sidered at all? If it is a matter of comfort to me 
to try to know hidden things, things that are be¬ 
yond, am I not to be indulged?” 

“Oh my, oh me, the fragrance of this place!” 
chattered the younger woman. “I wonder what 
kind of perfume Madame Madorie uses. Do 
you suppose she has it for sale, daddy? It’s so 
enticing.” 

The party now fell into precipitate silence, the 
silence that first oppressed them on entrance to 
the room. The velvet hangings stirred and 
Madame Madorie stood before them. In the 
faint light the woman appeared inimitably like 
a cold marble statue silhouetted against the black. 
She stood thus gazing at them simply but intent¬ 
ly. Then the cold marble moved and became 
human flesh. She crossed to the center table, 
her limbs moving sinuously under the folds of 
drapery. 

fc Partie Carree? This is the party of Madame 
Gentry?” asked the figure in purple. The Eng¬ 
lish was hesitant and broken, with a strong 
French accent. It was fascinating to listen to 
her masculine tones. 

“Yes, Madame Madorie,” 'answered Mrs. 
Gentry stepping forward and speaking for the 
company. “We heard of your powers through 
84 



The Crystal Gazer 


friends in the village. In fact we had heard of 
you in Paris, and we want a peep into the future. 
This is my husband, Mr. Dunbar Gentry. And 
our daughter, Lillian. And Mr. Gaylord 
Powers, my brother.” 

“Your daughter,” asked Madame Madorie. 
“Pardonnez-moi” 

“That is, Mr. Gentry’s daughter,” corrected 
Mrs. Gentry, a little confused. “She is too old 
to be my daughter.” 

“Monsieur Raymond Gray?” asked Madame 
Madorie, speaking out of the book. “Did you 
not engage time for five? Does not Monsieur 
Gray come?” 

“He is a trifle delayed,” replied Mrs. Gentry, 
shifting her gaze nervously toward the door. 
“Mr. Gray will be here in a few moments, I 
hope.” 

“I fear we cannot be delayed,” answered the 
woman in purple. “The Spirit moves, you 
know, in ways we do not understand. It is like 
the wind that blows the clouds. It comes. It 
goes. I get what we say in French —en rap¬ 
port. Yes. However. You may sit down, 
please. I have some things to tell you together. 
I have some things to tell you each alone. 
Monsieur Gray may come later. I will tell him 
alone. Yes.” 


35 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


The four visitors were seated in the divan or 
in easy chairs. Dunbar Gentry sat down sus¬ 
piciously as though expecting some hidden spring 
to drop the chair through the carpeted floor. 
Madame Madorie smiled. 

“My art is a strange one, some people think,” 
she began. “You think it strange we should 
read the future or the past? N J est ce past I 
think it strange we should not. The scoffers say 
we are fatuous fools. Quackery they call our 
work. Or practical joking. The occult, they 
say is a fraud. We are savants to play upon the 
credulity of the people? Yes? No? If the law 
says we play on the credulity of the people, and 
tries to crush us down, then the law should crush 
down some churches and religions, too. Oh, I 
have seen the priests play upon the credulous 
minds of the simple! I do not have any of that! 
It is, what you say in English, larking? Hoax¬ 
ing? My hands are washed clean from it. You 
are intelligent people who come to me. I am 
sure you would not come here if you thought me 
to play upon superstition, to be reckless of 
honesty. N’est ce pasV 9 

Madame Madorie washed her hands symbol¬ 
ically during this speech. She seemed anxious 
to cleanse them of any reputed stain. Her 
figure was poised in self control. 

36 



The Crystal Gazer 


“You see the crystal here?” she asked. “Crys¬ 
tal gazing, it is not smiled upon today. But 
always in the history of men it has moved des¬ 
tinies. Did not God gaze into the void at cre¬ 
ation and see the earth and all its future unroll? 
Is not man’s mind in His image? It longs to 
know the unknown and to unweave the threads 
of fate. Long ago the Egyptians gazed into 
polished basalt. And the Greeks into obsidian 
mirrors. The Arabs saw into ink or blood-drops 
and knew what the dread tomorrow would be. 
So the Australian Blacks, the Maoris, the Az¬ 
tecs, the Samoyeds. And in your own wonder¬ 
ful country, the Incas and the Iroquois. Is our 
intelligence less than theirs? No. But enough 
of that!” 

The woman in purple now turned to the scarlet 
box. She moved to open it and tantalizingly 
held it shut. Her face was utterly veiled from 
expression. 

“I am Madame Madorie. I am called in Paris 
the Doctor of Fragrance. It is mot du guet. I 
have a contribution to knowledge to make the 
world. Yes. No one else has ever mastered it. 
You see, the doctors of the law in the temple, 
they say we have five senses. One is the sense of 
touch. The fingers, the hands, the face, all the 
body, is able to touch, to feel. To enjoy, to suf- 
87 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


fer, to know. It is beautiful. The sense of 
touch is the mother of all. It comes first and 
remains last. Before the milky eye of the babe 
can see, the chubby hand can touch. N J est ce 
pas? And then there is hearing. The sweet 
sounds of the stream, of the winds, of the voice 
of love, of birds, of music. Yes? The sounds 
that are set down in the—what you say in Eng¬ 
lish—chromatic scale. Ah! The young lady 
knows. She plays the piano, is it not? Oui. 
And then the sight. The colors of red and blue 
and green and pink and yellow and—and—oh, 
it is no end! To be color blind, it is awful. Or 
to lose the sight of all the world? It is better 
to die, they say, to be a suicide of life. Eh? I 
know not. And then to taste. Some like it best. 
To eat and drink. To live on the ambrosia and 
nectar of the world. Ah! It is a wonderful 
thing, is the body! N'est ce pas?” 

During her speech Madam Madorie vibrated 
in every sense with the subject she expounded. 
Her audience, even to the aged and skeptical 
Dunbar Gentry, gave rapt and respectful at¬ 
tention to every move of hands and lips. 

“Now there is the other sense,” continued the 
woman. “What can we say of the smell? It is 
the most wonderful of all. But least subject to 
control. It goes with the very breath of life. 

38 



The Crystal Gazer 


Even before we touch do we breathe. Who can 
catalogue the thousand whiffs of fragrance? 
The myriad odor waves that come to the soul? 
The notes of sound, the colors of sight, can be 
set down in scales of music. Or in the rainbow. 
Yes? But the fragrance of rue. Or laurel. 
Or iris. Or jasmine. Or cassia. Or heliotrope. 
Who can measure that? Even the taste cannot 
live without the smell. Close the nostrils and 
the mouth cannot detect bitter or sweet. Acid 
or salt, absinthe or vermuth. Eh? It is wonder¬ 
ful, the fragrance. I have not the words. Je 
ne sais quoi” 

“Alas! alas!” she went on. “The heaven-given 
sense of smell in man is dying. Birds and lower 
animals have it. Much more than man. Many 
of the birds of the skies, the vultures and condors, 
the sharks of the sea, hunt by the sense of odor. 
So do the wolves and the beasts of the jungle. 
Yes. And the soul of man still responds to a 
thousand fragrances. We know not why, but 
fragrances rule the soul. It is the truth. Eau- 
de-cologne and otto-of-roses calm and soothe the 
sick. Ground ivy, is it not balmy aromatic to be 
used in ale? Yes? In Java when the cholera 
curses the land they use artabotrys to check the 
spasms of the sufferers. Is it not woodruff they 
infuse into the Rhine wines? You should know. 

39 




The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


To make the Maitrank? Or is it aromatic lads- 
love for the absinthe of France? And, ah me! 
The frankincense, does it not breathe the fra¬ 
grance of eternity? And carry the soul out of 
time? Into the unbeginning past and the un¬ 
ending future? Yes! So! It is the sense of 
fragrance that reveals the soul! If we could 
read the message of fragrance— ” 

Madame Madorie halted her address. A 
faint buzz sounded behind the curtains. The 
green garbed attendant appeared instantly. 
Without word the maid obeyed the silent gesture 
of eye and head and approached the door. A 
moment later she returned in the same soft 
silence. Madame Madorie read the card on the 
tray and shrugged her shoulders. 

“It is enough!” she said decisively. “I have 
no more to say to you together. You will go put 
into the ante-room, please. Comes now Mon¬ 
sieur Gray. The readings of character, of past 
and future, are matters of privacy. You win be 
shown in one at a time. Oui. Pardonnez ma 
facon de parler ” 

The woman in attendance opened the door 
noiselessly and the silence of the exit was broken 
only by the shuffling of Dunbar Gentrys shoes. 

The two women were alone in the room again. 
The faint hum of voices from beyond was audi- 
40 



The Crystal Gazer 


ble. Madame Madorie lifted the lid of the scar¬ 
let box and arranged its contents. For many 
ticks of the clock she stood thus. Then her head 
lifted and nodded to the green clad creature still 
unmoved at the door. 

“Mr. Gaylord Powers, please. Not a word to 
be said, remember. Be discreet, Jane, with your 
eyes.” 

The young man who re-entered the room stood 
stock still until the attendant disappeared. He 
looked cautiously behind at the closed door and 
then to the silent woman in purple. His head 
lifted high trying to add a cubit to a medium 
stature. His fair hair tossed straight back from 
the forehead. He twitched and smoothed the 
small, smart moustache that adorned immature 
features. He laughed nervously and then spoke 
to relieve the nervous laugh. 

“Say now, Madame Madorie! Why is it you 
put me through this thing first? To see if I come 
out alive? Mr. Gentry said out there they wanted 
to try it first on the dog. Ha! Ha! Funny place 
this. But very nice, too.” 

“You will be seated please,” directed Madame 
Madorie, pointing him a chair beside the table. 

The soft hands of the woman were laid on 
Gaylord Powers head and felt mystically over 
the skull. When she took seat before the crystal 
41 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


the young man smiled sheepishly and pretended 
humor. He was embarrassed like a school girl. 
Madame Madorie sat imperturbable, sphinx-like. 

“Your hands, please,” commanded the fortune 
teller. “Now over. They are very strong hands. 
The heart-line, the fate line, ah! They might 
mean three different things. That is where the 
reading of the hand is unsatisfying. No? I must 
bring in the real science in a moment. You love 
the out-of-doors, is it not? Riding, rowing—ah! 
What is this I see? You are venturesome, brave, 
rash! You would fling yourself into a river to 
save a drowning child! You have a strong heart 
as well as the strong hand. Yes? Is it not?” 

“How do you know?” asked the boyish man 
eagerly. “Just what I did when I was sixteen. 
Saved a drowning girl. They gave me a medal 
for it! What is that in the red box?” 

“Ah! You are a curious brain!” she went on 
still studying the outstretched palm. “Also are 
you a shallow brain? You care more to know what 
is in a red box than what is in your destiny? 
N J est ce pas? The red box? It is a wonderful in¬ 
strument invented by a strange genius. It is to 
measure odors and fragrances that the ordinary 
senses of beings do not understand. Therefore 
it is an instrument that is able to read the soul. 
Ouir 


42 



The Crystal Gazer 


“Ah! What an awful instrument! You’re go¬ 
ing to try it on me, aren’t you?” he queried. 

“Is there anything especially you wish to 
know, Monsieur Powers? Anything about the 
future?” asked Madame Madorie. 

“Why yes! Let me see!” he replied. “I am 
going to climb the peak of the Grepon tomorrow. 
I want to know if I shall come down all right. 
Of course I shall! My friend, Mr. Gray, op¬ 
poses it. He thinks it dangerous and a fool’s 
trick. What do you say?” 

Madame Madorie now rose and lifted the lid 
of the scarlet box. It opened backward so as to 
hide the contents from the curious in the chair. 

“You will close your eyes, please,” commanded 
the mystic. 

“Smell of this fragrance I put before you. 
Do you like it? Yes? No? 

“No! It is sickly and fainty. I—I—Ah! 
Take it away! Don’t give me more of that!” he 
cried opening his eyes. 

“What is it?” 

“You must keep your eyes shut,” reproved 
Madame Madorie. “Else I cannot read the fu¬ 
ture so clearly. It is when the eyes are closed 
that the soul is strongest. No? This fragrance, 
it is some love so much. It is from a Japanese 
flower. In the East the women often put it un- 
43 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


der the doormat. They mix it with orange 
leaves and lemon grass. Then every foot that 
crosses the door unconsciously presses the fra¬ 
grance. When the man smells he reveals the soul 
as he enters. Clever. Eh? Yes? Now keep your 
eyes closed. Please. Tell me how you like this. 
It is a strange odor and you must tell me how it 
affects you. Make no mistake. So much de¬ 
pends on it. Breathe in deeply. Is it good? 
Yes? No?” 

Gaylord Powers leaned back with eyes closed. 
A small green bag from the box was dangled be¬ 
fore his face. He sniffed perceptibly. A pleas¬ 
ant sigh followed the smile that covered his 
mouth. 

“Ah, I like that!” cried the youth. “Don't 
take it away.” 

Madame Madorie resumed her seat and indi¬ 
cated the seeker for light to open his eyes. She 
held the bag of fragrance to her own delicate 
nostrils and gazed into the glass ball before her. 
She gazed like a snake charmer. 

“Now I know what you like. And what you 
do not like,” she sang in a deep monotone ar 
though speaking to the glass. “This fragrance I 
hold here. It is a rare blend. Eucalyptus. 
Scented pelargehium. Thyme. Lilac. Aioysia. 
And the yulan of China. It took davs of labor 
44 



The Crystal Gazer 


to prepare. Then years of scientific work to 
know its precise effects. Yes. Now I breathe 
it in and gaze into the crystal. Look! I begin to 
see things! There! A young man is climbing a 
mountain. See, he goes up with others. How 
many? One, two. Maybe more. He is strong 
and unafraid. He scales the rocky cliffs. He 
has no fear of the abyss. No! No? Yes! There! 
One of his companions is about to fall! It is ter¬ 
rible! The young man gives his hand! Oh, the 
friend is saved! It is beautiful. It is the spirit 
of youth. They have reached the top. The 
victory is there! Yes! But the descent is before 
them. They say the descent is more difficult than 
the ascent. He begins to come down. There. 
There. Ah! It is all cloudy now. I cannot see 
more.” 

The woman closed her eyes for a second. Then 
she returned the bag of fragrance and closed the 
scarlet box. She pushed a button and the green 
clad attendant stood forth. Madame Madorie 
pointed to the door. 

“It is all, today, young man. Maybe if you 
should come another day I will have more to 
say. Bon jour. Monsieur Powers.” 

The youth took his hat and stepped obedient¬ 
ly to the door. He turned as the maid moved 
45 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


to show him out and smiled across the room. 
Then he laughed audibly. 

“Thanks awfully, Madame Madorie. I shall 
climb the Grepon tomorrow. As we say in 
America —Bonne et belle assez ." 


46 



When Greek Meets Greek. 


Chapter IV. 

WHEN GREEK MEETS GREEK. 

S IXTY seconds of pause followed the exit of 
Gaylord Powers. Then Madame Madorie 
nodded for the admittance of Lillian Gen¬ 
try. The young woman that crossed the room 
was artificial in every gesture and movement. 
She was tall and well formed. Her face and 
body might have been pretty if draped properly. 
Her studied petiteness argued unnatural train¬ 
ing. Even the habitual smile was bizarre and 
pasted on. Madame Madorie looked critical 
and moved the young woman to a seat. 

“You will take your hat off. Please,” she 
said directly. 

“But I don’t want to take it off!” replied the 
girl in petulant tone. “It disarranges my hair 
and—and—isn’t the hat pretty? Father got it in 
Paris for me. At Madame Flaubert’s. You 
know Madame Flaubert’s for hats. The bes’ 
__” 

“You will take off your hat,” commanded 
Madame Madorie sharply. “You come to have 
me tell you something. No? Why do you not do 
as I say? The time. It is valuable.” 

47 




The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


The young woman removed her hat and fur 
and assumed all the artificial good humor of her 
education. Madame Madorie looked down up¬ 
on the exposed neck and shoulders and the thin 
waist that pretended to cover them. 

“What is the red box on the table?” asked the 
curious. 

Madame Madorie gazed severely into the shal¬ 
low face. Her answer was noncommittal of any 
feeling. 

“That is Pandora’s Box.” 

“Who is Pandora?” pried the inquisitive. 

“Do you not read? Maybe you read and do 
not understand. Do not remember. Do not 
anything. No? Even 7 school girl should know 
who was Pandora. Do you know who was Eve? 
In the garden with Adam? Pandora was the 
Greek Eve. The poets say she was the first 
mortal woman in the world. I know not. Vul¬ 
can made her out of clay to punish man. The 
clay was made to breathe. Then all the gods 
and goddesses gave the woman special charms. 
But Jupiter gave her a box. It was to be opened 
only by her husband. See? But she could not 
wait. A fool curiosity moved her fingers. The 
woman opened the box and all the evils and 
plagues in the world flew out. Do you under¬ 
stand? No? Have you brains to understand? 

48 



When Greek Meets Greek 


No? Only hope remained in the box. It was all 
that saved the world. Do you see? Yes? Do 
you know now who was Pandora? N’oubliez 
pas . 33 

“It is a pretty story,” answered the girl with 
cultivated smile. “Isn’t it strange though! Did 
Pandora have psweet perfumes? Oh, Madame 
Madorie! I’m just crazy about your perfumes! 
Do you have some alluring ones, some enticing 
ones, I could buy? Daddy is able to pay you a 
good price for them. People say Daddy has 
mountains of money, high as the Alps. What 
do you say in French —Vargent est un bon — " 

“You will lay your hands on the table,” re¬ 
plied Madame Madorie. “I am not a vender of 
perfumes. My profession, it is to read char¬ 
acters and fate. Do you come here to buy per¬ 
fumes? Or is it to know something? Eh? Turn 
your hands over, please. Your heart line. It is 
very indistinct. I think it is because—ah! Ah, 
yes. It is divided into three. And the fate line. 
It runs all over. Wobbly, is it, you say in Eng¬ 
lish. Um. It is strange. Not so strange. No. 
This line, it shows you are very shallow. You 
read and understand nothing. You travel and 
see nothing. This line here. It is that you are 
selfish. Very selfish. You can sit down and read 
a novel and eat a chocolate. And all the world 
49 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


goes to ruin. You want what you want. Yes? 
No? This line. It is —.” 

“I don’t care to have you say such things to 
me,” snapped the young woman rising petulant¬ 
ly. “I am the daughter of Mr. Gentry. And I 
did not come here to be insulted. It is impudent. 
It is brazen of you, a fortune-teller, to — ” 

“You may leave my room!” ordered Madame 
Madorie rising majestically. The depth of her 
voice startled. “You come here to have your 
life read to you. Is it not? You want to Imow 
about the past. The future. Yes? When I tell 
you the truth you do not like it! Is it lies you 
want me to tell you? Yes? No? I tell you again, 
you may go from my room. I do not want your 
money. A part of the check shall be returned. 
It is all! Go!” 

Madame Madorie pointed dramatically to 
the door. The green clad attendant was swift to 
show the visitor the exit. 

“I am very sorry, Madame Madorie,” pouted 
Miss Gentry. “I meant no offense whatever. I 
will sit down and do as you say. I want you to 
tell me about the future. Please.” 

“I cannot today,” answered Madame Madorie. 
“I am sorry, too. It is very unfortunate. But 
the spirit is all spoiled for today. You will come 
back tomorrow, another day. I will read your 
50 



When Greek Meets Greek 


future for nothing. It is all today. Wait! Look 
up in the French book —la beaute sans parfum” 

A breathing spell intervened between the exit 
of Lillian Gentry and the entrance of the wheez¬ 
ing old man. Madame Madorie visibly gathered 
herself together. She breathed deeply. Then 
she smiled faintly at the maid. 

“It is all right, Jane,” she said in a low voice. 
“You will admit Mr. Gentry. Show great favor 
to the old man.” 

The prematurely old and feeble limbs of Dun¬ 
bar Gentry moved erratically across the room to 
the chair indicated. His body was wasted and 
racked. The tottering flesh showed all too plain¬ 
ly it was a tortured slave to passion. His face 
was deep lined and repulsive with a spent and 
impotent lustfulness. The eyes were glazed and 
red. A paroxysm of coughing seized the old 
man as he weakly dropped into the chair. When 
the spasm had exhausted itself, Dunbar Gentry 
looked around to discover if he were alone with 
Madame Madorie. When he spoke it was in a 
throaty whisper. 

“Mrs. Gentry would insist that I come here,” 
he laughed with a mirthless chuckle. His eyes 
showed now, protruding, and appropriating the 
wealth of vitality in the beautiful person con¬ 
fronting him. “Of course I don’t believe in this 
51 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


stuff, understand. But I guess the future ahead 
of me is not so long. And therefore not hard to 
prophesy. Maybe you can see my past, too. It 
is not hard to read, nor pleasant.” 

Dunbar Gentry offered no apology for his 
critical inspection of her physical beauty. His 
face confessed the charm of the woman. His 
eye held a look of brutal cynicism that forgot to 
respect respectability. Madame Madorie looked 
at the wasted figure with repulsion. Then her 
face glimpsed a sudden mood of pity and she 
seemed to exercise restraint. 

“Monsieur Gentry! You will let me see your 
hands, please,” said Madame Madorie rising and 
opening the mystery box. “No. The open 
palms. Yes. Now you will close your eyes. 
Yes. You must obey if you wish me to speak of 
the past or the future. That is all right. Thank 
you. The sense of smell, sir. It reveals the 
soul. The scarlet box I open here, it is a box of 
mysteries. No one else in the world can under¬ 
stand it but myself. When I am dead the knowl¬ 
edge dies with me. Do you understand? No? 
Well. I will tell you a few of its secrets. It is 
full of a thousand fragrances. They are gather¬ 
ed from all over the world. Violet and wood¬ 
ruff. Patchouli and orange. Mezereon bush. 
Polyanthus. Syringa and bergamot. Musk. 

52 



When Greek Meets Greek 


Jonquil. Hawthorn. All. There is no fra¬ 
grance in the world that is not in there. You 
may know, sir, of the power of odors upon the 
soul. No? You may know how some please and 
invigorate the spirit. Yes? And some odors dis¬ 
gust. Ugh! It is like asafoetida, it is not? No? 
You should know that moths cannot live in the 
presence of camphor. So it is with the soul of 
man and the odor of evil. That is, if the man 
have a soul. Eh? No? You must keep your 
eyes closed. Did I not say so. This fragrance 
I hold in front of you. Do you like it? Breathe 
it in deep. Does it like you or not? Eh? No?” 

Dunbar Gentry now raised a hand with what 
jerky power his arm could command and struck 
the dangling bag of perfume away. Madame 
Madorie drew back with no attempt to conceal 
her displeasure. The look of haughty contempt 
had no effect on the man in the chair. 

“Take it away!” he cried. “Where did I 
smell that cursed stuff before. I don’t like it!” 

“So I thought not,” replied Madame Madorie 
with a shrug. “Do you want to know what it is? 
No? It is the myrrh that burns often in the 
church incense. You must have been to church 
once, sir. Yes? The incense burns in the oil 
lamps and perfumes the wax tapers in the 


53 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


cathedrals. It is too ugly? Eh? No? A ravish¬ 
ing odor to some. But not to you. Ah, well.” 

Madame Madorie again peered into the per¬ 
fume box. The hungry eyes of the man de¬ 
voured passionately. 

“You will close your eyes again, please,” she 
went on. “I have found it at last, the fragrance 
I wish. I think it will suit you. Yes? No? Close 
your eyes. The soul, it does not think so much 
when the eyes are awake. So we close the eyes 
in prayer. This fragrance is very rare. Very 
precious. It is brought from a long ways. May¬ 
be it will remind you of a ladies handkerchief. 
No? Maybe of a sweet tune played in the night 
time. No? Maybe of a cup of wine. Maybe of 
a pillow. Yes? Maybe—well, who knows what? 
It may call up some picture. Out of the vasty 
deep of the buried past. No? Yes? Now breathe 
of this. And tell me what your soul says.” 

“Ravishing! Beautiful!” cried the old man. 
He was animated to move quickly to grasp 
something. Then he fell back heavily into the 
chair, growling and mumbling in subdued pain. 

“I can tell your past from that first fra¬ 
grance,” said Madame Madorie. 

“I don’t want to hear of my past,” answered 
the distended jaws fiercely. “Don’t I know my 
past? My wife mentions it often enough. Let 
54 



When Greek Meets Greek. 


it be dead, can’t you. I didn’t come to hear of 
the dead past. If the thing isn’t dead, I’d like 
to kill it.” 

“Very well,” continued Madame Madorie. 
“We shall let your past slumber. Till it awakens. 
You cannot kill it, I fear. It is the only thing 
that lives. We do not have the present. It is 
always slipping from us. And all we can do 
with the future is to add it to the past. Is it not 
so? You should know. Yes? Then maybe you 
want to hear about the future. The other fra¬ 
grance, the one you like, tells of that. It will 
tell of your tomorrow. And of all the tomor¬ 
rows to come. Do you want to hear? No? It 
was alluring perfume. Eh? Ravishing. Beauti¬ 
ful, you said. Shall I say something about the 
future?” 

“Leave the damned future alone!” cried the 
old man with a new flush of irascibility. “I will 
none of it. I have had enough past and future. 
Why do they send me to this fool place? I 
thought it a fraud. But my wife would have me 
come. Maybe it was to get rid of my presence 
for a moment. Ah! I shall bother no one soon. 
I must go. But it has been nice to see you, little 
girl. You are a fair woman. A fair woman to 
see. Do you have much money? Money to cover 
55 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


your fine white shoulders? I have much money. 
And I am generous to those — ” 

“The maid will show you the door, Monsieur 
Gentry,” said Madame Madorie rising. Her 
atmosphere indicated a decided end to the inter¬ 
view. 

A caricature of a smile distorted the seared 
face of the human wreck. His lip curled in a 
leer as he bowed farewell through the door. 
When the tottering figure had withdrawn Ma¬ 
dame Madorie stood shaking and convulsed. 
Her previous restraint broke over into agitation. 
Her face flushed with shame. It was the feel¬ 
ing of a barmaid, humiliated under indignities 
heaped on her office, but not daring to forsake 
her livelihood. The maid stood gazing pathet¬ 
ically upon her mistress. Then the proud head 
lifted with the long accustomed smile. A nod 
indicated that Mrs. Gentry should be admitted. 

The woman that confronted Madame Madorie 
waited until the attendant disappeared. Then 
moved across the velvet rug and sank luxurious¬ 
ly into the chair. There was art and grace in 
every movement. Her air was a trifle super¬ 
cilious, if not haughty. As though she had 
never sinned. Or was rich. Her eyes were bold 
at times. Or again cast down, as if concealing 
something. Her features were too perfect. The 
56 



When Greek Meets Greek . 


wealth of blonde hair protruding under the hat, 
the thin lips, the ruddy skin, the brilliant eyes, 
exercised a power well known to the possessor. 
She was draped in smart gown that displayed 
clearly the outlines of her mature person. 

“I come to have you tell me whatever you will, 
Madame Madorie,” began Mrs. Gentry. “I do 
not wish to make the mistake of my daughter. 
I believe in your powers. I do not care about 
the past. I want to know about the future. The 
others of my party may be here out of whim. 
I am very much in earnest. I believe you can 
help me if you will!” 

“It is a good beginning, Madame Gentry,” 
answered the seer. 

“It is faith we need. No? Is it not that a great 
Miracle Worker of long ago could do no mira¬ 
cles because of the people’s unbelief? You will 
take off your hat, please. Yes. Now the hands. 
Let me see the palms. It is strange. The life 
line, the fate line—ah! I will say nothing yet. 
What is this I see? You are talented. You read. 
You think. You travel. You talk. You are 
a woman of affairs. You are clever. Yes? 
Very clever. But to be clever. It is not to be 
happy? No? What is this? It is a strange line. 
I never saw it so deep before. It is that you 
have a great fear. A great fear. Yes? I do not 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


ask you to tell. II faut laver son Unge sale en 
famille , we say in Paris. To wash soiled linen 
in private.” Madame Madorie searched the face 
before her and found the eyes trembling and 
evasive. 

“What is fear?” resumed the psychic. “It is 
our deadly enemy. In fear did our mother bring 
us into the world. Fear, it is a moral cur. It 
is the worst devil from hell. No? It is a liar and 
a murderer. Does it not kill enjoyment? Does 
it not cast shadows on the day? And torment the 
night? Savages, do they not fear the evil gods? 
Children, do they not fear the dark? So we all 
fear. We fear life. We fear de&th. We fear 
ourselves. We fear tomorrow. We fear today. 
We fear man. We fear God. Is it not so? It 
is a peculiar line and very deep in your hand. 
It is strange. Yes. Not so strange. You fear 
for your brother, is it? You fear for yourself. 
You fear for someone else. I cannot make out. 
No.” 

“Can you read the future for me?” interposed 
Mrs. Gentry nervously. “There is something I 
would give worlds to Imow.” 

“We shall come to that in a moment,” an¬ 
swered Madame Madorie rising and opening the 
scarlet case. “Do you understand perfumes? 
Yes? You wear a delightful fragrance today. It 
58 



When Greek Meets Greek . 


has some lavender and cassia and—I know not 
what else. It is smart. Only, do you not think, 
a little too seductive? That is, for every day? No? 
Well. It is not for me to say. You have traveled 
in Japan? Yes? I thought so. You remember 
the ladies of Japan have a game. It is to guess 
the names of perfumes. Sweet aromas and 
scented boquets are blended and mixed. The 
game is to name the fragrances. You will close 
your eyes, please. Now breathe in deeply. Can 
you guess? Tell me, do you like the flavor?” 

“No, I do not, Madame Madorie. It is sickly. 
Reminds me of the carbolic or ether smell of a 
hospital.” 

“Yes. It is a very clean smell,” replied the 
purple woman. 

“Do you want to know what it is? It comes 
from the dreamy land of India. The fragrances 
are many that go to make it. Tamar^el-hindi. 
And Indian sandal wood. And attar-of-roses. 
And a strange odor. Shall I speak the word? 
Nardostachys. It grows in North India. They 
have a legend there that says it was used in the 
alabaster box of ointment when Mary anointed 
the feet of the Lord. You do not like it? No?” 

Madame Madorie returned the scented bag to 
the scarlet chest. Then she produced another. 

“You will close your eyes again, please,” she 
59 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


continued. “Be very careful on the next fra¬ 
grance. It is very important. You must say 
just what it means to your soul. Breathe in 
deeply. Ah! You need not answer. I see the 
look of delight on your face. Is it rapture? 
Yes? Keep your eyes closed. I will tell you what 
it is. Some of the fragrance is poet’s narcissus 
from the Sicily Islands. Then there is a touch 
of mignonette. There is another smell I do not 
name. It is from Persia. Then there is a strange 
one from Java. It is the most precious extract 
in the world. They call it Ilang-Ilang. You 
see the fragrance comes from all the ends of the 
world. Yes. Is it not? All the earth, it is bruised. 
All the flowers, they are crushed. The men in 
the fields, the sailors on the sea, the merchants in 
the cities, the flowers of the earth—all have died 
that you might have the sweet rapture of the per¬ 
fume. Is it not? Now what is it you wish to 
know.” 

Madame Madorie sat down again and the two 
women made prolonged exchange of searching 
looks. The eyes of Mrs. Gentry dropped. Her 
words were nervous. 

“I came to ask you, Madame Madorie, a ques¬ 
tion that may sound veiy indefinite. But maybe 
you can get my meaning without inquiring too 
far. Can you look into the future? Can you 
60 



When Greek Meets Greek . 


scry into the crystal there? Then tell me. How 
soon shall I he completely, supremely happy?” 

During the recital of the question Madame 
Madorie gazed fixedly into the crystal and held 
the bag of fragrance to her nostrils. Now she 
spoke in mystic and subdued monotone. Again 
with uncanny depth. 

“I will answer your question, Madame. Be 
very silent now. I try to get in touch with the 
soul fragrance. It is, what we say in French, 
en rapport. When the harmony is perfect I 
shall be able to read. Now. Yes. There. The 
crystal is misty. Now it clears. Ah! I see 
people. Just a moment! The people move about. 
One, two, three. Three people I see. The wo¬ 
man—ah! No. Yes. One of the men goes away. 
There comes another woman. Now there are 
two women and one man. I cannot see very 
clearly. I see one of the women left alone. 
Now—now. There! It is all gone. I do not see 
any more.” 

The white throat of Madame Madorie arched 
and the pale face sank into her hands as though 
exhausted. 

“It is as I feared!” cried Mrs. Gently. “I 
feared there was a blot on my happiness. Even 
that little I have is not mine for long. Another 
woman! Ah —!” 


61 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


“What is it you say, happiness?” broke in 
Madame Madorie, rising and returning the fra¬ 
grance to the chest. “To be happy, to be joyful, 
is it not in ourselves? To love the poor. To care 
for the little children. To love the unlovely. To 
love the flowers, the mountains, the birds. And 
then there is God. Eh? No? What is it to be 
happy? You should know. You read. You 
think. You travel. You see all the world out¬ 
side. Do you fear the world that is inside? It is 
there we find it to be happy, is it not ? I have one 
word to say and that is all. All for today. If 
you want to kill the great fear—ah! Do you want 
to kill the great fear? Or, it is maybe you enjoy 
it? Eh? No? You must kill the self. The ego. 
To love unselfishly. To five unselfishly. That 
is to kill the great fear. If you will come back 
to me again I will say more. It is all for today. 
Bon soir, Madame Gentry.” 

“I shall come another day soon to interview 
you alone,” said Mrs. Gentry. “Mr. Gray is 
outside and will see you a moment, if you wish.” 

The maid in green showed the visitor to the 
door. Once the woman had gone Madame 
Madorie sat gazing ahead of her in a trance. Her 
stare was fixed and enthralled. Not outward 
but inward. It took the rustle of the attendant 
to awaken her. 


62 



When Greek Meets Greek . 


“You may admit Mr. Gray,” said the dreamer 
coming to herself. 

“Then that is all for today, Jane.” 

The artist was admitted. He was dressed in 
brown riding suit and carried a cap and riding 
crop. He paused for a moment to survey the 
surroundings. Every movement of his body dis¬ 
played flourish and finish and his face wore an 
insinuating smile. The smile was a compound 
of incredulity and cocksureness. Also conde¬ 
scension. He smiled first at the maid. Then at 
the wierd room. Then across to Madame Mad- 
orie. Then at himself. Every gesture suggested 
easy self confidence. 

“Madame Madorie,” bowed the gentleman. 
“I am delighted to meet you. That is, again. 
My name is Raymond Gray. I am an American. 
And an artist. Some people can’t believe that 
I could be both. Ha! Ha! However! You see I 
am here painting. Landscapes of the Alps. I 
am a friend of Mrs. Gentry’s party. I merely 
came in because my friend urged it. Really, 
though, I’m not interested. I can’t believe in 
this child’s play, you know. I’ve too much gray 
matter! Didn’t I see you on the express from 
Paris? And yesterday at Montanvert?” 

He laughed knowingly and sank gracefully 
into the chair pointed him. Madame Madorie 
said nothing. 


63 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


“But what I’m really interested in,” continued 
the artist, “is to secure your services for another 
cause. Eh? You see, a crowd of our friends are 
in Chamonix this season. English and French 
and Americans. I plan to stay a month or so 
myself. And I am arranging in a few days a 
delightful party. It is to be an Aphrodite party. 
Does that mean anything to you? No?” 

Madame Madorie gazed at him unmoved and 
unflinching. And silently as well. She was 
aloof. 

“An Aphrodite party sounds Greek, eh?” con¬ 
tinued Gray, flecking his boots. “Mrs. Gentry 
was afraid it might appear pagan. But I have 
no fears on that ground. Pagan or Hottentot 
are nothing to me. I want a thing to be artistic. 
See? I can’t work up any enthusiasm on this 
question of whether it is proper. But. Let me 
come to the point. The party is to be a midnight 
affair. About thirty select guests. In my 
studio, ah, Coret’s studio on the hillside. You 
can see it from here. All the guests are to come 
draped like the Greek gods and goddesses. Venus 
and Jupiter and Juno. Dionysus and Mars. 
Clever idea, don’t you think. And a chance for 
real art. Now, I hear Madame Madorie, you 
are a Doctor of Fragrance. How would you 
like to disperse perfumes on the occasion? What 
64 



When Greek Meets Greek. 


would an Aphrodite party be without wines and 
tinted lights and Oriental perfumes? You shall 
be well paid for your services.” 

“I thank you, Monsieur Gray,” replied Ma¬ 
dame Madorie, in her voice of masculine depth. 
“I fear you do not understand. My profession, 
it is not that. Besides. I do not care to appear 
in public so. No. Aphrodite party? It is, what 
you say, English, German, to laugh? Ah! Well! 
I do not express myself so well. But I shrug 
my shoulders. No! Monsieur Gray.” 

“Very sorry, Madame Madorie,” responded 
the artist. “Especially since coming here, I’ve 
made up my mind I must have you. There is 
something about you—a kind of fragrance! Say! 
You deserve the Doctor degree—you are indeed 
a wisp of fragrance. I —.” 

‘ “What do you say?” asked the woman sharp¬ 
ly. “You are a gentleman? To be personal, is 
it? I am not the kind of woman—well! We will 
say no more. The Madame who was here a 
moment ago—the Madame Gentry—would she 
like it that you speak so to me?” 

The attitude of Madame Madorie was decided 
rebuke. It was not without effect upon the ar¬ 
tist. He had mistaken his quarry and tried now 
to find refuge in humor. Nervous humor. Em¬ 
barrassed humor. 


65 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


“It is enough!” cried Madame Madorie rising. 
“II n J y a pas a dire! If you come here to joke, 
it is, you may go. If you come here to take 
liberty you are no gentleman to respect a lady. 
The world, it is hard enough for a woman who 
is alone. Your words, they are an offense — ” 

“I beg your pardon, Madame,” said the artist 
contritely. A flush of shame confused his fea¬ 
tures and the show of apology brought an an¬ 
swering glance of forgiveness. “If you don’t 
mind I shall have you read my fortune and go. 
It — ” 

“Ah! C’est une autre choseT answered Ma¬ 
dame Madorie, moving him to his seat again. 
“Ce monde est plein defous! Your hands please. 
Let me see the palms. Now over. I will say 
a word to you about the perfumes. I notice you 
like the fragrances. You carry the scented 
handkerchief. The flowers, they have souls. Is 
it not? The spirit is the perfume. Some flowers 
are evil and have evil souls. Some are pure and 
have the souls of angels. The fragrances that 
you love, they show the spirit of the man. Do 
you remember the great man of science? Pro¬ 
fessor Tyndall? He studied the vapors and 
fragrances. He learned the power of perfume 
to cool the air. He found some fragrance to 
have little power. As the patchouli. Yes? 

66 



When Greek Meets Greek . 


Then the lavender. The thyme. And rosemary. 
And laurel. The most powerful to make man 
forget the heat, it is cassia. In the scarlet box 
I have the fragrances of the world. It is my 
science to know the ones that burn or cool the 
soul. Yes? No? You will close your eyes, 
please.” 

Gray assumed a most respectful distance and 
did his best with obedience to make amends. 
Madame Madorie did not seem to notice him 
personally. 

“Keep your eyes closed and breathe in deep¬ 
ly,” commanded the woman. “Do you like the 
fragrance? I can see that you do. It is a sweet 
fragrance. From India. Tamar-el-hindi. And 
sandal wood. A little attar-of-roses. And nar- 
dostachys. The legends of India say it was 
used by Mary in the alabaster box. The oint¬ 
ment was poured on the feet of the Lord. Please 
keep your eyes closed. Smell of this now. It 
is the Ilang-Iiang of Java. Ah! Me! You 
like it! Yes? Sweet? N J est ce pas!” 

“Both are exquisite!” answered Gray. “You 
know, I’m passionately fond of fragrances! 
Passionately!” 

Madame Madorie sank into her chair and held 
the two bags of scent to her nostrils. The artist 
watched her closely as she spoke. 

67 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


“I see in the crystal that you have two natures, 
is it? The first fragrance is religious. The 
second is of the sense. You are two men. Yes? 
No? Maybe we all are so. Eh? Now. I see 
in the glass that you love the ease. You could 
be very lazy and selfish. You could also be very 
brave. Always two men, it is. It is strange. 
Not so strange. I see sometime for you a great 
sorrow. A great joy. Then the two men will 
become one. No? I see a woman. Many wo¬ 
men. Now again is only one woman. Ah! I 
cannot see more. It is gone. It is all I have to 
say today.” 

Gray stared into the face of Madame Mad- 
orie. She paid no attention to his obvious adula¬ 
tion but pointed to the door. The man arose 
and flecked his boots in an embarrassed way. The 
maid had already opened the exit. 

“I shall call again, if I may, Madame Mado- 
rie,” he said. 

“The appointments, they are made by my 
secretary,” she answered. “Bon soirT 

Madame Madorie watched the door close. The 
maid returned to announce another caller. 

“A gentlemen to see you,” she said in soft, low 
voice. “He did not offer a card.” 

“You may show him in,” said Madame Mado¬ 
rie after reflection. 


68 



When Greek Meets Greek. 


“Yes. You may show him in.” 

The faint hum of departing voices penetrated 
from without. The door closed. Madame Mad- 
orie did not seem to notice that the maid had 
withdrawn and left her alone with the visitor. 
He was a man of fifty. Elegantly groomed and 
carrying a cane. His tall figure moved heavily 
across the room and stood before the scrying 
table. Madame Madorie seemed preoccupied 
now in sorting bags of scent in the scarlet box. 
Suddenly she turned. Every line of her pale 
skin was suddenly creased to spell fear. The 
woman stood statue still. Her eyes shot a startled 
look into the heavy face that searched her whole 
person. Then the white hand clutched the white 
throat. As though to stifle a paroxysm. 

“Pardon, Monsieur,” she said at last finding 
her voice. “The strain of today, it has been too 
much. I am not — I — I — Sometimes, it is I 
have a heart trouble. I do not feel well. You 
will have to excuse me today. I cannot see more 
people. You will have to come another time.” 

“I just came in, Madame Madorie,” answered 
a heavy voice, “to see your work. I have heard 
of you in Paris, and in the village here. The 
psychic and the occult have always had a fascina- 
for me. The people say you — ” 

“I cannot more today, please,” answered the 
69 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


woman. “I am not well. You will have to in¬ 
dulge me, please. Tout a Vheure . Please. I 
cannot more. Maybe tomorrow, is it? Another 
day. Please. You must go!” 

The green clad woman in attendance hastened 
the way to the door. 

The heavy face of the man showed pity and 
apology. He spoke word of regret and bowed 
farewell. When the door had closed the agita¬ 
tion of Madame Madorie broke all restraint. 

“You must never admit that man again, 
Jane!” she commanded between convulsions. 
“Never again! Never! Do you understand? If 
you value my life! If you love me, never let 
him cross the door into this room again! It is all 
for today. Thank God, it is all for today.” 

Madame Madorie closed the scarlet box hastily 
and disappeared through the curtains. The maid 
extinguished the burning incense in the brazier. 

Then a wonderful transformation took place 
in the room. The curtains were pulled aside on 
hangers and revealed walls daintly done in Eng¬ 
lish style. Draperies were taken from the chairs. 
The tools of the profession were removed. Cur¬ 
tains were raised at the window. A flood of 
light swept the room. Through the window and 
down the slope could be seen the quaint village 
of Chamonix. Aoid beyond the snow-covered 
Alps. 


70 



When Greek Meets Greek . 


A few moments later a child of five years ran 
into the room laughing and shouting. Madame 
Madorie playfully followed. The child was 
dressed in velvet and wore long curls. Madame 
Madorie was folded now in a soft pink robe that 
reached to her feet. She sank into the divan 
and the child climbed over her laughing bois¬ 
terously. 

“You dear boy!” cried the woman passionate¬ 
ly drawing the child to her body. “My own 
little Archie! Ah! There! You hug me like you 
wanted to eat me! Is my little soldier hungry? 
Jane will have our supper soon. Look! Look 
out of the window! See the big mountains. And 
the people in the village. Some day when 
Archie is a big man, then he will climb the moun¬ 
tains !” 

The sun disappeared over the barriers of the 
Alps. White banks of clouds moved through 
the cold peaks like militia of the air. Or caravans 
migrating to the Unknown. Tiny stragglers 
from the van floated in the offing. The huge 
towers of stone carressed and folded these birds 
of the sky in their cold embrace and brooded 
over the valley. 

Below in the village of Chamonix, twilight 
was fast invading the streets. 

71 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


Chapter V. 

AFFAIRE D’AMOUR. 

T HE Valley of Chamonix has its cult of 
worshippers as devoted and passionate in 
their adulation as pilgrims to Mecca, Zion, 
or Benares. They begin to tumble into the rug¬ 
ged shrine as early as dame nature opens her in¬ 
vitation in May. They gather from the ends of 
the world. And each year they are pleased be¬ 
yond expectations. The fair retreat greets their 
arrival with a burst of gladness and habitues lin¬ 
ger till the threatening deluge of October. 

The quaint and legendary village of Chamonix 
lies nestled in the valley of the River Arve. The 
turbulent mountain stream washes like an artery 
through its heart. Close to the right bank runs 
the highway, the Rue Nationale, as though con¬ 
testing a race with the river. Both disappear in 
the maze of forests down the valley and leave 
one guessing which is more fleet of foot. 

The Rue Nationale passes through Chamonix 
from end to end. In the heart of the village 
and reaching to the right from the Rue Nation- 
72 



Affaire D J Amour. 


ale is the Place de l’Eglise. It is a quaint 
thoroughfare, luring the traveler to pause at 
every step, and leading on to Chamonix church. 
There stand the chapels of Notre-Dame, St. 
Felix, St Andre, St. Sebastian, and St. Jean- 
Baptiste. They are dwarfed cathedrals and man 
made beside the massive temple of the Alps and 
the greater cathedral smiles down in pity on the 
smaller. 

Beyond, a maze of shops and hotels invites 
the taste to foreign flavors. The Hotel du 
Mt. Blanc. The Hotel des Alpes. The Villa 
Beau Sejour. The Hotel de Paris. On the left 
bank of the Arve stands the Hotel Royal, and in 
front a monument to He Saussure. Beyond is a 
Gallery of Alpine Paintings and on the slope 
overlooking Chamonix and the Arve the tiny 
English church. 

It is from the statue to De Saussure that eager 
pilgrims depart for Pierre Pointus and the as¬ 
cent of Mt. Blanc. The path glides past the 
Hotel de la Poste and is lost to view in the shade 
of the forests. Another road leaps up into the 
mountains from the square, a path that invites 
a hard climb of two hours to Montanvert. Be¬ 
yond is a gateway to the Grepon and the Petit 
Dru. 

On gentle undulations reaching back from the 
73 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


village of Chamonix, and scattered with delight¬ 
ful random between the Mt Blanc and the 
Montanvert roads, snuggles a mixed colony of 
French and English villas. When winter has 
acknowledged defeat to the May sunlight the 
slopes become decorated with all shades of livid 
green. Sparkling gardens do honor to the rest 
of the rainbow. Through the break in the moun¬ 
tain wall one feels ushered strangely into another 
world. For eyes accustomed to naked moun¬ 
tains, leaden clouds, and drab snow this garden 
spot glows semi-tropical. One would exclaim 
aloud at the beauty of the scene. 

A short distance up the slope from the road to 
Montanvert stood a plain little cottage done in 
simple Swiss style. The height of the surround¬ 
ing trees and shrubbery overshadowed the cot¬ 
tages and shut in the yard with protecting walls 
of green. A wide porch extended across the 
front and looked toward Chamonix. Climbing 
roses reached up the posts of the porch and in 
late summer luxuriantly spread a wealth of leaf 
and bloom like a lattice over the windows. Bold 
Alpine mountain climbers, they mounted the 
cornice and roof to the top of the chimney. 
There breathed about the dwelling an ecstasy 
of loveliness as of a broken alabaster box of per¬ 
fumes. 


74 



Affaire D*Amour. 


It was the summer home of Madame Madorie. 
She was well known and little known in Cha¬ 
monix. It had been well advertised by word of 
mouth in the hotels that the woman who oc¬ 
cupied the cottage for four seasons past was a 
fortune teller from Paris. She lived alone with 
her maid and boy of five years. She had no 
social intercourse with the surrounding colony 
of cottages or the tourists who flooded the hotels. 
Madame Madorie was known as the Doctor of 
Fragrances. She offered some new interpreta¬ 
tion of the occult. Tourists fell into the habit of 
visiting her seances as part of the process of 
“doing’’ the Alps. Was it illegal? The authori¬ 
ties in Chamonix looked upon it as harmless. So 
no one said her nay. 

A quarter mile further up the slope and with¬ 
in view of the cottage of Madame Madorie 
loomed a huge Swiss bungalow that had not been 
occupied for several years. The drive and walks 
surrounding were unkempt and overgrown with 
weeds. Instead of depreciating, it gave added 
charm to the place. Unpainted for years the 
house had grown old before its time. The artis¬ 
tic brush of rain and wind had tinted it a faint 
and restful drab. The bungalow was known to 
belong to a French art dealer, Coret. 

From the porch on the valley side one could 

75 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


look down the gentle slope to the Arve and 
Chamonix. And beyond to the mammoth peaks 
that gleam in perpetual winter of altitude. The 
hugh rock fastness of Mt Blanc rears its 
head in proud majesty and looks with pity on the 
feeble foothills of Chamonix. And on the frail 
dwellings that cling to the slope. Far beyond, 
the Grepon, the Petit Dru, the Aiguille de 
Geant, the Dome de Gouter, sit enthroned in the 
skies. 

It was the hour of fading day when the party 
of Mrs. Gentry made departure from the cottage 
of Madam Madorie. They wound their way up 
the slope to the old weather-beaten bungalow 
that Raymond Gray occupied as studio. Eve¬ 
ning was smiling on the quiet scene. What more 
could an artist ask of Nature? 

The coloring on the vast sheets of distant 
snow was a rosy hue. The mountains were pre¬ 
paring for sleep and putting the valley to bed in 
dark blue shadows. The depths below were soon 
veiled in darkness. But far up in the skies the 
snowfields still glowed in the red light of sunset. 
A faint white mist lapped the peaks. It re¬ 
sembled waves of incense. It was the faint glow 
of a cathedral lighted with a hundred candles on 
mighty altars. The light was miraculous and 
seemed to slant down from other worlds. It was 
the solemn splendor of heaven touching earth. 

76 



’Affaire D’Amour. 


“This is a hell of a country!” wheezed Dunbar 
Gentry hobbling along on his cane. “All uphill 
and downhill! Gods! No chance for a car to 
twist around this mess. It’s climb, climb, climb! 
If you wanted a place to rest, Violet, why the 
devil didn’t we stay at home? In the Berkshires 
one can get a little ease and comfort. But you 
would come to this damned place! And you want 
to stay a month. Well—I’ve had a lot of hell in 
my life, and a little more wont make much dif¬ 
ference.” 

“Don’t shout it to the mountains!” rebuked 
his young wife. “There are people around here 
of good taste who can hear. What will they 
think? Besides my own ears are tired of it. Aim 
I not to be considered? You know how your 
voice carries, and the children are only a few 
steps beyond.” 

Gaylord Powers and Lillian Gentry had trip¬ 
ped ahead and were laughingly stumbling and 
pulling one another up the slope. Raymond 
Gray followed apace, drinking in the vast scenic 
display. He paused at every few paces to sur¬ 
vey the sunset effects on peak and valley. These 
images were to hide in his brain for a few days 
and then mould paint and canvas to their likeness. 

“Can you see the Grepon range over there?” 
pointed the youthful Powers. He shouted his 
77 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


observation down the slope to the laggard mem¬ 
bers of the party. “That’s where this kid will be 
tomorrow! What’s the Mount Shasta or Mc¬ 
Kinley climb to this? Me for the top! Wait, Lil¬ 
lian, you minx! Have you no mind for this? 
Stop a second and look at the view. It’s one in 
a life time.” 

“Please hurry, Gaylord!” called back the girl 
petulantly. 

“You would make this ugly climb tonight! If 
you want to see Raymond’s studio let’s make it 
snappy. It’s growing dark and I must get back 
to the hotel for dinner. You men forget a wom¬ 
an has to dress. And daddy insists on putting 
up at that Villa Beau Sejour. Such terrible 
hotels! Gaylord! Mother! Quick!” She stamped 
her foot. 

The party arrived bereft of breath at the big 
porch of the bungalow. They entered for inspec¬ 
tion. The coughing, wheezing old man was de¬ 
posited in a big arm chair before the fireplace. 
A tray of bottles and tinkling glasses was pro¬ 
duced and Dunbar Gentry was argued into sem¬ 
blance of good humor. 

“How do you like the studio?” asked Gray 
striding about with proud air of proprietor. 
“My friend, Coret, has had it for five summers. 
Left it for me just as he furnished it. I’m a 
78 



Affaire D’Amour. 


lucky hound to get it. A big room this, for a 
Swiss bungalow. And built around the fire¬ 
place. That’s the way a house should he built. 
And the open windows here that look toward the 
mountains. Mediocrity with cheap paints and 
poor canvas ought to he able to paint here. The 
j inspiration is superb! And altogether unmatched 
in the Alps or in all Europe.” 

The lithe body of the artist wound leisurely 
about the room as he spoke. He touched the 
mantelpiece, the rich hangings, the palette and 
brushes, gently caressing them. 

“You must remember, Raymond,” said Mrs. 

I Gentry, “your promise to do a portrait of me. 
We have a month here now. But if you’re to 
; be so enraptured of the mountains as to forget 
me, I’ll be jealous of the mountains.” She 
watched her husband while she spoke, calculating 
the effect of this program upon a possible objec¬ 
tor. There was no answer in his direction. 

“Yes! And a portrait of me, too!” cried the 
daughter with artificial vivacity. Her voice 
sounded hollowly alien and assumed. “What 
i shall I wear? Is it—ah! yes, I remember— 
grande toilette? Or en deshabille? Or— ” 
“Lillian!” cried Mrs. Gentry. “Don’t use 
your French so recklessly. En deshabille is for a 
courtesan. It goes with the fflle de joie . You 
meant to say en grande tenue ." 

79 




The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


“Yes, yes!” laughed the artist. “Come dressed 
both of you as the charmonte. Couleur de rose, 
if you please. But let’s consider that another 
day. The first thing to arrange is the party. 
Tomorrow night at ten o’clock this room will be 
filled with a gay crowd. I have limited it to 
twenty. Everybody has agreed to come, except 
that prude, Madame Bousset. Says she objects 
to the name. An Aphrodite party sounds aw¬ 
ful, you know. But what’s in a name? A rose 
by any other title—well! I wish we could get 
Madame Madorie to come. Wouldn’t she be a 
delight, dispensing perfumes?” 

“Madame Madorie!” wheezed Dunbar Gentry 
between sips. “There’s a new brand of dam- 
foolery for you. I don’t know what she said to 
the rest of you. But she impresses me as a very 
suggestive vampire. Very clever woman! And 
very charming too! But what is it you say in 
French, Lillian? Fou et peu de sens?” 

“The woman is clever” agreed the artist. “She 
knows how to relieve people of a twenty franc 
piece without offense. But she is more than 
clever. There is a mysterious something about 
her that one would give a world to know. She 
plays a rather dangerous game, too. Ha! If 
she only knew it, fortune tellers and witches were 
burned in this very village a few hundred years 
80 



Affaire D J Amour. 


ago. I heard the portiers and garcons in the 
hotels pointing out the spot where they sizzled 
the heretics and witches at the stake. If Madame 
Madorie doesn’t watch out the goblins of police 
will get her.” 

“I hope you are not getting interested in the 
French fortune teller, Raymond!” flashed Mrs. 
Gentry. The look in her eye was unmistakable. 
Then she paused to re-collect herself. She 
laughed to hide her concern. “Of course that’s 
your affair. But I doubt if you could afford to 
have her present tomorrow night. No one knows 
the woman. You don’t know whom you are in¬ 
viting.” 

“I don’t imagine she’ll come,” replied the ar¬ 
tist, studying his canvas in unconcern. “If she 
were asked it would not be as guest. I merely 
suggested her for professional services. Do you 
all have your parts for tomorrow night? Re¬ 
member! Everyone en masque , Venus and Mars 
and Juno and Pandora—all are to be concealed. 
When it’s time to remove the masks the fun will 
develop. Ah! It shall be a thriller!” 

“Not for me!” winked Powers. “I’m going 
to do mountain climbing all day tomorrow. I’ve 
got two of the finest guides in the Alps. Amdre 
Core and Jean Pierrot. Andre is a lusty boy 
and Jean a man of forty. They say they’ve 
81 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


never had an accident! If those boys take me up 
and down the Grepon without a scratch there’ll 
be a generous shelling out of Napoleons for 
them. They know it, too! I can see fire in their 
eyes! Ah! My soul! They’re bulls of fellows! 
Muscles like steel and hearts afraid of nothing. 
The Grepon, you know, is the hardest climb in 
the Alps. We shall go right up the Mummery 
crack, too. No easy route for me. We shall 
reach the Montanvert tonight and sleep till four 
in the morning. It’ll be eight at night before we 
get back. No Aphrodite party for me then, 
boy! It’s the bed I’ll want after a day on the 
heights.” 

“Oh, I’m afraid,” began Mrs. Gentry. “Gay¬ 
lord, don’t you remember what your dying 
father said to me? You’ve always been so rash! 
And I’m afraid— ” 

“Afraid of what?” demanded the brother. 

“You know very well what I’m afraid of,” 
continued Violet Gentry. “Talk with anyone in 
the village. Accidents, accidents, broken heads 
and torn bodies, is all you hear. Who is this 
Hammel they tell about that tried to climb 
Mt. Blanc? You know how ill-fated he was. 
He was lost and forty years later they found his 
skull and bones and knapsack at the end of the 
Glacier des Bossons. I heard men talking about 
82 



Affaire D J Amour. 


his destruction down at the hotel. A man could 
slip and be entombed in the ice of the plateau. 
And his remains could stay there till the Day of 
Judgment! Then you ask why I am afraid.” 

“It’s no idle dream!” added the artist. “You 
say, Gaylord, that I’m weak-hearted. Or love 
ease too much. You don’t understand. You 
know the tale they tell about Captain Arkwright 
and his three companions? All killed by an ava¬ 
lanche. Why those rocks that weigh tons are 
just toy marbles, for the giants to roll. And 
who can tell when they’ll come down? The young 
garcon at the Royal was telling me of an Aus¬ 
trian that recently walked into an ice crevasse in 
the glacier. Fell a sheer depth of ninety feet! 
When his companions called they could get no 
answer. Then they dangled a guide at the end 
of a hundred foot rope until he could go no fur¬ 
ther for bad air. A bottle was let down another 
hundred feet and came up frozen with hair. Life 
is full of a lot of risks, Gaylord. But your sis¬ 
ter is right. There’s no sense in making life 
more dangerous than it is. You’re just a little 
speed devil, that’s all.” 

“Please don’t go” chimed in Lillian. “I was 
reading in one of the books too, at the hotel. It 
said a whole party of eleven people perished on 
Mt Blanc in 1870. Not a one returned alive. 

83 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


Please don’t go, Gaylord. Come! Let’s stay 
and have our fun at the Aphrodite party. I’ve 
got a new gown specially. Don’t you want to 
see it? You can trust Raymond to make the 
party exciting!” 

“You’d better listen to reason Gaylord,” con¬ 
tinued Violet Gentry. “And the wish of your 
dear old father. And isn’t my wish anything? 
Raymond knows the story of this artist, Cumani, 
wasn’t it? He went to ascend Mt Blanc and 
has never even been heard of since. And then 
Emile Rey. You know him for one of the best 
mountain climbers in the world. But you know 
how his axe slipped on the du Geant. How he 
bounced like a rubber ball a thousand feet at a 
time to the valley below! Oh, it’s awful! I don’t 
want to think about it! But his body lies in the 
cemetery at Courmayeur. Then you ask why I 
am afraid.” 

“Yes! Violet,” interposed the young enthusiast. 
“But dear woman! Last year a train was 
wrecked on the Overland in the Rockies. And 
twenty people were killed. That doesn’t make 
us prefer to go afoot does it? Besides, in moun¬ 
tain climbing, it’s only the timid fools that get 
hurt. Fear! Fear! All the time you’re afraid. 
Dear me, Violet, that’s all Ive heard since a boy. 
You always fear for me for some reason or other. 

84 



Affaire D*Amour. 


If I don’t climb the Grepon tomorrow and stay 
to the Aphrodite party, I suppose you’ll fear I 
may fall in love with Madame Madorie. I’ve 
been fed up on fear and I’m sick of it.” 

“I think you might indulge your sister, Gay¬ 
lord,” said the artist. He looked over at Mrs. 
Gentry breaking into tears. “Your guides may 
be sturdy and seasoned. But even the expert, 
you know can’t control falling rocks and ava¬ 
lanches. The winds on those heights are terrible 
enough to sweep a man out into space like a leaf. 
And I’ve heard members of the Italian Alpine 
Club tell of the cleverest slipping and falling 
down the couloir for a thousand feet. Of course 
we all have to meet death at some time or other. 
But I am young and don’t care to think about it. 
I confess that I love life! You may do as you 
please, though. You always have. I suppose 
you always will.” 

Powers stood looking into the fireplace. Vi¬ 
olet Gentry gazed dumbly at his fine form 
through her tears. Dunbar Gentry had fallen 
asleep during the heated discussion and now 
breathed with slumberous wheeze. Powers 
turned quietly on his heel and walked as quietly 
out onto the veranda. The moon stood forth 
above Mt. Blanc and the twinkling lights of 
the village below were like gems on the velvet 
darkness. 


85 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


Lillian Gentry rose and followed. The artist 
and Violet were alone in the room so far as con¬ 
versation was concerned. Dunbar Gentry 
wheezed and snored heavily in the big chair. The 
two exchanged glances. 

“Raymond!” said the woman in a low voice. 
“You didn’t want to offend me by saying what 
you did of Madame Madorie, did you? I’m 
afraid of that woman! And I dislike her for 
some reason. I don’t know why. But my in¬ 
tuition can usually be trusted. She is seductive. 
She displays her charms like a woman of the 
pavement. I hope vou’re not going to have her 
here.” 

“I think your judgment of her a little unjust, 
Violet,” answered the artist. “Didn’t you say 
yourself she was entirely unknown? And wasn’t 
she modestly dressed? Like a little Puritan or 
Quaker, far as I could see. I haven’t invited her 
as a guest to the party. But I hope to engage 
her professional services. She will dispense the 
perfumes. That is, if she accepts,” 

“I think you might consider my desire in the 
matter for once,” continued Violet. “We have 
so little time together here. And the hours we 
can snatch are few enough. You remember the 
unhappy summer I had two years ago at the 
Beach? Do you want me to repeat that? Wasn’t 
80 



Affaire D } Amour. 


it difficult enough to arrange this one short 
month without spoiling it all? I suppose you 
think me terribly selfish and jealous. But you 
often forget that your position is not so hard as 
mine. You are free to come and go where you 
will. As free as the winds. I am chained like a 
dog to a kennel. Oh! The imaginations I often 
have when you are away! You are a handsome 
man, and attractive. Sometimes I think be¬ 
witching to women. They fall over themselves 
to show you attentions even when I am near. 
And all I can do is to stand by and smile. As 
though I were unconcerned.” 

“Sh! Not so loud!” cautioned the artist look¬ 
ing furtively from the sleeping Dunbar Gentry 
to the porch. “Listen, my dear! You know I 
would go a long way to avoid giving you unhap¬ 
piness. What has been between us is altogether 
too beautiful a thing to be marred in that way. 
And I am not unforgetful of the happiness you 
have given me. But isn’t it true, Violet we have 
many a time made one another unhappy over 
foolish jealousies? There was that silly misun¬ 
derstanding three summers ago on Long Island. 
All about a hair-brained little dancing teacher 
that could have no more attraction for me that a 
circus clown. And last summer that crude Mrs. 
Bellamy. And—but why run over the list? You 
87 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


know my heart’s devotion to you, dear. Why do 
you let silly fancies like these trouble you? Dear¬ 
est!” 

“Well, forgive my jealousies!” pleaded Mrs. 
Gentry. “I’m ashamed of them, heaven knows. 
But please don’t stir them up again. This 
Madame Madorie fills me with the old green- 
eyed monster. She is so subtle and sinuous. I 
wondered what effect she would have on you 
when you entered her room this afternoon. Then 
when you came out you were silent. I thought 
I saw a strange light in your face. You know 
what I mean. Tell me it isn’t so! I’m afraid of 
that woman! Her intentions on any man would 
not be of the best. And her perfumes! They 
were suggestive of the courtesan. The creature 
had the impudence to tell me I had no religion. 
Said I loved the senses too much. I suppose she 
told you the opposite to throw you off guard. 
Please! Raymond! I can’t bear the thought of 
you talking with her again. Least of all, that 
you should have her invited to the party tomor¬ 
row night. For my sake, Raymond! Promise 
me—” 

Lillian Gentry tripped into the room at the in¬ 
stant and the artist withdrew his hand from Mrs. 
Gentry’s arm. 

“Please come out on the porch, mother! 

88 



Affaire D 3 Amour. 


chirped the girl dancing about. “And you Ray¬ 
mond! Gaylord wants you to see the mountains 
in the moonlight. You must let Gaylord climb 
the Grepon, mother. He said he could get back 
in time to come to our Aphrodite party. So 
what’s the difference? The dear boy has his 
heart set on going. You must let him do it. In¬ 
dulge him.” 

A moment later the four stood on the porch. 
Young Powers stood apart in colloquy with him¬ 
self. He looked stedfastly through the trees to 
the distant heights sparkling in the faint glow. 
The full moon stood out in the zenith. Faint 
rays of light glanced from the precipices and 
fell like rockets into the valley below. Distance 
appeared to be annihilated. The peaks might 
have been a million miles away, or within reach 
of the hand. White clouds floated on high like 
ghosts. Was it real? Or was it phosphorescent 
image of the brain?' 

“Isn’t it just savoir vivre , Gaylord?” chattered 
the girl. 

“Do you like my French? I want some good 
French to take back to America. Some people 
come back empty handed. I don’t mean to let 
my friends think I got nothing in France.” 

Gaylord turned with sarcasm, more than a 
hint of sarcasm, a suggestion of reservoirs of 
89 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


sarcasm. He smiled. “Here’s another bit of 
French to leam before you leave, Lillian. It 
is something about the one-eyed being kings in 
the kingdom of the blind. Au royaume des 
aveugles les horgnes sont rois ." 

“Write it out for me some time, Gaylord, 
please,” replied the girl unaware of the tone. 
“Hello! Here comes Daddy. It’s time you were 
waking up, dear Papa. It’s a shame to sleep 
when — ” 

“What nonsense is this?” wheezed Dunbar 
Gentry stumbling out upon the porch. “I’m 
damned hungry for dinner. And I don’t like to 
be delayed. But you would come to this rotten 
hole in the ground. It was your doing, Violet. 
Where’s the car? Oh, I forget! It’s a hell of a 
climb down that hill again! I—I— ” 

“Daddy please!” remonstrated Lillian. “You 
must not swear! It’s the only vice Daddy has. 
And I try to correct him so often. Come! Let’s 
go for something to eat. What’s the use of 
wasting time here?” 

When the party of five entered the dining 
room of the Villa Beau Sejour it was to gaze on 
a company in festive garb. It was the hour of 
play. And of display. The splendor of newly 
acquired wealth dazzled. Pince-nez and jewels 
sparkled against soft faces and white shoulders. 

90 



Affaire D’Amour. 


The assemblage seemed to have no care but to 
dine. The mystery of the mountains was for¬ 
gotten and pleasure was very pleasant in this hot 
house of the artificial. The soft strain of a Vien¬ 
nese waltz floated on the air. 

“You will excuse me please!” asked Powers, 
with dinner concluded. “Andre Core and Jean 
Pierrot must be stamping their feet waiting for 
me. We’ll be at the Montanvert in two hours. 
A fellow needs lots of sleep to climb the Grepon. 
See you tomorrow night. An revoir!” 

“Good luck, Gaylord!” cried Lillian looking 
approval at her own display of arms and fluff of 
pink gown. “We’ll hail you tomorrow night at 
the party. A bras ouverts!” 

Mrs. Gentry looked across table without re¬ 
ply and posed for an expression of deep concern. 
Her white shoulders rose and fell under the faint 
folds of gorgeous gown. Then she smiled and 
threw a kiss at the departing brother. 

“As I live, there is Madame Madorie,” pointed 
Raymond Gray with ill-concealed interest. “In 
the corner, dining alone. She takes to an even¬ 
ing gown as charmingly as a seance robe. Par¬ 
don, Violet. Don’t look so severe. Come! 
There’s the Viennese waltz I’m crazy about. Ex¬ 
cuse us, Lillian. Violet and I have this dance.” 


91 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


Chapter VI. 
INTERMEZZO. 

W HILE Gaylord Powers, with Andre 
Core and Jean Pierrot, diced with death 
on the morning height of the mountain 
Raymond Gray was folded in sleep. He awaked 
at ten o’clock with a sigh. At the end of an hour 
he achieved his bath in scented water and then 
lounged in silk dressing gown, awaiting break¬ 
fast from the Hotel. The orderly made tardy 
appearance and in an hour took a full day’s share 
of abuse. There was no excuse for inconve¬ 
nience. 

The artist craved ease and decorated it with 
every refinement. Sleep to him was a goddess. 
He frequently expressed his preference for the 
ancient pagan division of the day and argued 
the hours from midnight to dawn were too mystic 
and imaginative to be wasted. Let the curtains 
of sleep be drawn during the day. It was lux¬ 
urious and aristocratic to the point of Roman. 

The sun reached mid-afternoon when the 
smart figure of Gray jaunted down the slope 
92 



Intermezzo. 


toward the cottage of Madame Madorie. He 
was attired in immaculate white suit and carried 
a swagger stick. 

The garden surrounding Madame Madorie’s 
cottage was Italian in profusion. Ensconced be¬ 
hind a low hedge it displayed an Oriental wealth 
of roses and lilacs. Their soft petals shone un¬ 
der the slanting rays of the sinking sun. The 
faintly moving air was saturated with fragrances 
of rose and lilac. A mingled odor of orange 
and eucalyptus added its charm. Fluttering but¬ 
terflies and the faint hum of bees beguiled eye 
and ear. In the comer a bower of leaves and 
branches screened a half concealed seat. It was 
a garden spot well calculated to urge dreams on 
half closed eyes. 

Gray drew up statue still and gazed into the 
Eden beyond the hedge. The soft voice of a 
woman was caroling scattered bits of French 
love lyric. Her voice resonated the spontaneous 
richness of a bird exulting in its security, with¬ 
drawn from intruding eyes and ears. Its tender 
plaint sounded the love soul of a violin, or a bell, 
or a flute. The artist peered through the flower 
laden bushes for a glimpse of the angel. A smile 
spread over his fine features, the whimsical smile 
of one expecting a new adventure. 

His expectation was rewarded. A young 
93 



The Lotus\ Throne of Nirvana 


woman turned the bend of the garden path. 
She moved unconscious of self and unaware of 
the presence of intruders. Her dainty figure 
tripped about like an essential part of Nature, 
petting and caressing and plucking the flowers. 
The rarely exquisite beauty of the creature fitted 
perfectly into the loveliness of the scene. The 
exponent of a new school of Artistic Naturalism 
was fascinated. 

The young woman obviously betokened a 
French maiden from the village. Her figure was 
lithe and daintly rounded. As she skipped 
lightly here and there the charm of girlish grace 
betrayed the ripening fullness of womanhood. 
She was dressed in soft clinging material of blue. 
Every move vibrated the strength of mountain 
health. The lovely being at moments appeared 
a product of the fancy, a spirit or elf lightly 
poised and ready to vanish into the void at first 
approach. 

Gray watched her trip like a fawn down the 
garden path to the rustic seat under the arbor. 
Still singing her bird lyric she turned now and 
assorted the flowers in her lap. Given full view 
of her face, the artist immediately bowed under 
the spell of extraordinary charm. He thought 
on the instant of brush and canvas. The sim¬ 
plicity and purity of that face passed descrip- 



Intermezzo. 


tion. It was transparent innocency. The com¬ 
plexion of her cheek was of apple blossoms. Her 
auburn hair, tinted with gold in the sunshine, lay 
coiled in luxuriant mass on her head. If released 
it promised to fall in cascades of golden waves 
to her knees. The features were large and 
Madonna like, of exquisite chastity. It was the 
kind of face Sir Joshua Reynolds, or Madame 
Re Brun, or Romney, would immortalize. The 
onlooker felt the artist stir in his soul. 

With athletic leap over the hedge and a few 
long strides Gray stood before her. As the girl¬ 
ish face looked up, the song fled her lips and 
she gave a startled cry. Her eyes might have 
been blue or brown, or both. They became sud¬ 
denly electric with confused expression and un¬ 
der intensity of emotion became chameleon-like 
in the swiftness of their change. She started as 
though to escape in flight. 

“No harm meant, my little miss,” assured the 
artist smiling geniality. “I just took liberty of 
coming in to see the garden.” He looked upon 
a countenance unschooled to hide emotion. The 
big eyes staring at him were untrained to de¬ 
ceive and betrayed every thought and mood. 
Her wealth of soft, auburn hair was still more 
attractive at close range and seemed to invite the 
very air to caress and reverence. 

95 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


“I didn’t come to steal your roses, or you,” 
reassured Gray, trying to banish her alarm. “I 
have just called to see Madame Madorie. Wont 
you tell her I—ah!” 

The creature of the garden suddenly turned 
and with remarkable swiftness ran through the 
beds of flowers to the house. The nymph called 
with full throated cry at the porch and without 
so much as a backward glance disappeared in¬ 
doors. Gray stood flecking his white trousers. 
A moment later Madame Madorie appeared. 
The artist advanced apologetically and removed 
his hat. 

“No offense, Madame Madorie,” he bowed. 
“I bring a compliment to your garden. Simply 
couldn’t resist jumping over the hedge and com¬ 
ing in. Am I too familiar, I hope you’ll forgive 
me! I came to see you.” 

Madame Madorie’s attitude was a trifle for¬ 
bidding. She bent unflinching gaze upon the in¬ 
truder, quizzically weighing whether to receive 
the apology. For the first time in years Gray 
suffered confusion. He was taken aback at the 
searching directness of the woman’s eyes. He 
played with his hat, flecked his shoes, shifted 
from foot to foot. Then with genial warmth 
Madame Madorie broke into gentle laughter. 

“It is a strange way you have to come, is it 
96 



Intermezzo . 


not, Monsieur Gray,” she smiled. “I do not 
know, shall I chide you. Eh? Yes? What is it 
the Book says? He that will not come in by the 
door but climbs up over the wall is a robber. 
Well, you are an artist! Sans faconF 

She laughed again with her wierd masculine 
depth, not altogether reassuring Gray of for¬ 
giveness. Her attire was soft, clinging pink, an 
afternoon gown with arms to the elbow and neck 
free to the breezes. Her jet black hair and deli¬ 
cate skin seemed to draw back from the piercing 
rays of the descending sun. She moved over in 
invitation to the latticed arbor. 

“Who is the little Oread you have to gather 
your roses?” asked the artist, beginning to feel 
more at ease. “Or is she Dryad? My mythology 
isn’t much too accurate. Wasn’t it the Oreads 
that gathered colors from the roses to tint the 
day and night with beauty? A sweet and pretty 
little girl, Madame Madorie!” 

“Ah! En veriteF answered the woman, re¬ 
clining with consummate grace on the rustic 
bench. Gray thought the arbor seat had become 
a throne. “The little girl she is from Chamonix. 
She is so simple and good. Her face, is it not like 
the Virgin Mary’s? Her cheeks! Ah! The con - 
leur de rose! Her heart is so pure and white. Like 
the lily. The child is almost woman. She comes 
97 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


to help me with the cottage. Each day she comes 
and each day I learn to love her like the sister in 
the flesh. Her name is Marie. She has a devoted 
lover in the village. She sings all the day long. 
Her mind, it has no evil. What you say in Eng¬ 
lish? No remorse. It is so she was bom. Ah! 
But —ce monde est plein de fous. N J est ce pas! 
Sometimes I fear for Marie in so bad a world.” 

“She is a very fawn!” dilated the artist en¬ 
thusiastically. 

“A nymph of the woods! Look you! I’d give 
a deal to have her pose for me. Do you think 
you could arrange it? I want to get that lovely 
face and form on canvas! I might call her Hy- 
geia, the Goddess of Health. Eh?” 

“Ah! Ugh!” vociferated Madame Madorie 
with unmistakable shmg of the shoulders. “You 
would have her to be an artist’s model? You 
would spoil the child in the woman? I know the 
artist’s models in Paris. To have the name of 
Marie bruited so—no! —I will not. Do you 
think it good for the innocent girl to find out 
how beautiful she is? Yes? No? You are a man 
of the world. What is it you want—to have 
another liaison?” 

“You do me injustice, Madame Madorie,” 
flushed the artist. 

“My intentions are honorable, I assure you. 
I merely—” 


98 



Intermezzo . 


“Oui, ouir broke in the woman. “My pro¬ 
fession, is it not to read the character? The soul? 
Are you not an artist? Do you not love the siren 
dream of—ah! I will not to speak it. You love 
the ravissement, is it not? And if you paint the 
picture of Marie what will the Madame Gentry 
say? Will the Madame Gentry like it? Yes? 
No?” 

“Madame Gentry doesn’t own my soul!” 
flashed Gray. “She is a friend of mine from 
America. I admire her much. But what can 
that have to do with painting Marie?” 

“Ah, yes, it is well,” sighed Madame Madorie. 
“Pen de chose! But what was it you said in my 
parlors yesterday? Did you not say the human 
heart, it is polygamous? You do not give up the 
soul to Madame Gentry? Not to the daughter, 
Lillian Gentry? Not to—? Maybe it is for some¬ 
one else. Nb? I do not like the man who is 
thirty years old whose heart is not given away. 
Do you understand? It is for that I do not want 
you to know Marie. Or for Marie to know* the 
clever artist. You are so clever. And so pleas¬ 
ing. What is it you say in English? Bewitch¬ 
ing? Like the witches in Macbeth. Yes? No?” 

Madame Madorie turned her shoulder and 
now gazed through a vista of the roses and lilacs 
at the distant mountains. Beyond the fore- 
99 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


ground of pine forests in the Valley of Chamo¬ 
nix the peaks of the French Alps heaved their 
masses into the sky. A dark blue, almost purple, 
began to settle like smoke in the valley of the 
Arve and to veil the canyons. Far above the 
gorges the crests glowed rose-pink and saffron 
in the light of the setting sun. The air of the 
garden assumed the mauve of early evening. 

“You see the mountains ?” pointed Madame 
Madorie. “It is there the lover of Marie is to¬ 
day. It is for him Marie sings in the garden. 
Do you want to take the bird song from the lips 
of the child? Is it, you would spoil the love of 
Andre? He climbs the mountains for the 
travelers. He risks the life for his living. And 
all for Marie. Marie tells me of her Andre. 
They are like simple lambs together. Their love, 
it is so good. Not like the loves of the city. You 
are a man of the world, Monsieur Gray. You 
have the eyes to see. It is all right for you to 
play the game with women who know and un¬ 
derstand. No? I will not say. But Marie! Ah, 
no! No! I knew an artist once!” 

“I guess you think me a free lance,” laughed 
Gray nervously. 

“But really I’m not so bad. Maybe you’d find 
under my skin a good heart. And as for falling 
in love with Marie, is it not to laugh? Amdre, her 

100 



Intermezzo. 


lover, is welcome to her. I have been in love 
too often now. Love is a suffering I never want 
again. Have you read the story of Goethe’s 
sorrows of love? Don’t the German professors 
call love a disease? They treat it with anti-toxin. 
I remember the first time I was in love. I was 
a boy of ten. The bitter pang of separation and 
the anguish of being present! The sorrow of 
jealousy and the longings that are never satis¬ 
fied. I remember the second, the third, the tenth 
love? Ah! You need not fear for your Marie. 
I never want the unhappiness of being in love 
again. Maybe the philosophers of India are 
right. Love is the last great misery visited by 
the wrath of the gods. I remember once in Be¬ 
nares—” 

“Ah! You have been in India?” asked Ma¬ 
dame Madorie eagerly. 

“You know Benares? The Sacred City of the 
Ganges?” 

“Benares!” cried the artist. “Benares! Shall 
I ever forget? It was there I had the last love I 
ever want. The Sacred City of the Ganges! 
The withered, suffocating, <#ty of poison! I 
remember the caravans of Hindus, the Rajahs 
and the scum, that come to the river for a laundry 
of souls. I have seen them wash in the filth. I 
have seen the snake charmers, the jugglers, the 
101 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


dancing girls. And on the banks the temples of 
occultism. I floated one night on the river and 
heard the song of a beautiful woman. It came 
to me across the scented night under the stars. 
It was v a Kashmiri girl in a boat hung with roses. 
We tied our dungas together and had tea and 
pan while the boatsmen beat their tom-toms. We 
talked and smoked and made merry. She showed 
me the mandahs of soft wool, the leaves of 
chenar, and the windings of Jhelum. The Per¬ 
sian lacquer and her armlets and anklets of heavy 
gold. Can I forget the water picnic in the moon¬ 
light! The crowds, the priests, the temples—ah! 
Then came her gharri from Lucknow. I did not 
know when we drank together the sorrow love 
could bring. When she was gone I knew what 
Buddha and Brahma meant in saying that love 
was misery. I went to the Himalayas. To Cal¬ 
cutta. To Delhi. It was no use. I prayed that 
never again I should fall in love!” 

Madame Madorie looked at Raymond Gray 
with an eye that spoke many emotions. Pity. 
And rebuke. And concern. 

“I was in India once,” she answered. “But, 
pardonnez-moi. I do not mean to say harsh. But 
it is, Monsieur Gray, you have not been truly in 
love. The true love, it is not so. The love that 
makes the man strong to conquer the world. The 
102 



Intermezzo . 


love that makes the woman pray to be—ah—like 
Marie of the pure heart. You have not — ” 

“Madame Madorie!” called a full-throated, 
childish voice down the garden paths. 

The next instant Marie stood bashfully be¬ 
fore them pouring forth a volume of confused 
French. After a moment of advice and direc¬ 
tions, Madame Madorie introduced the girl. 

“This is Monsieur Gray. Marie Paret.” 

The girl courtesied sweetly. Madame Madorie 
explained to her that the artist wanted her pic¬ 
ture and that she would act as chaperon some 
afternoon. The nymph blushed deeply and dis¬ 
played her delight with a perfect row of white 
teeth and a clap of the hands. Madame Madorie 
explained that Marie’s English was too broken 
to express her feelings. But she was eager to 
pose. They watched her trip lightly back the 
garden path and disappear into the cottage. 

“The sun is sinking behind the mountains, 
Madame Madorie,” resumed the artist. “It is 
time I come to the business in hand. You see 
my cottage beyond on the slope? I am giving a 
party there for friends tonight, an Aphrodite 
party, as I told you yesterday. Don’t you think 
it a novel idea? Everyone is to represent a Greek 
God or Goddess. Aphrodite or Dionysos. 
Apollo or Diana. See? My young friend, Gay- 
108 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


lord Powers, is to be Mars. Orpheus will be 
there with music. And Tyche the Goddess of 
Luck. Mrs. Gentry is to be Aphrodite. I am 
to be—well, you shall see. I am eager for you to 
come, Madame. I need your presence among 
the guests as dispenser of perfumes. And as 
Nemesis, the Goddess of Justice. What do you 
say? May I call for you?” 

“I do not know, it is, you are a pagan?” quizzed 
the woman. 

“The Aphrodite party does not sound good. 
It is a bad name you chose, Monsieur Gray. 
Aphrodite, was she not the Goddess of Love? 
The Venus of the Greeks? I read it was the 
cult of debauchery in Corinth. I do not to 
spare the words, you see. Did she not arouse all 
the allurements? Was it not the Aphrodite who 
gave to women the enticements that could cap¬ 
tivate? Yes? No? The Aphrodite name is bad. 
Ugh! I hope the party is not so!” 

“No! No! Madame Madorie!” remonstrated 
the artist. “You may be assured on that point. 
I would not invite friends to such a display. 
Least of all, you. But, you have heard of the 
cult of Dionysos in Greece? No other god ex¬ 
ercised so great an influence on the civilization, 
the poetry, the art of Greece as Dionysos. When 
Greek life was decaying the followers of Diony- 
104 



Intermezzo . 


sos went out to the hills and started a revival. 
They danced around fires at night in festivals of 
joy. They made excursions to the mountains 
and held exciting dances by torch light. They 
knew the wild joys of music and jubilant revelry. 
They that danced were called enthenoi. It meant 
the God-in-you. Do you see the idea? The soul 
was supposed to flee from the body and join the 
god, Dionysos. I have wanted to revive the 
Dionysos cult. Tonight shall be a new experi¬ 
ment in joy.” 

Madame Madorie shook her head dubiously. 

“Why is it you change from Aphrodite to 
Dionysos?” she asked. 

“Is it not the Aphrodite party? I do not un¬ 
derstand the Greek. You talk now of the 
Dionysos. Eh? N J est ce pas?” 

“I call it Aphrodite party to please Madame 
Gentry,” explained the artist further. “It is 
really a Dionysos party. I am to be Dionysos. 
I —” 

“Ah, really, Monsieur Gray,” she laughed. 
“Then you are really giving the party to your¬ 
self. You compliment the woman. You say to 
her, it is for Aphrodite! Ha! Yes?” 

“Well, call it what you will, then,” laughed 
Gray in reply. 

“A Dionysos party. An Aphrodite party. 

105 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


Or a Nemesis party, if you will. You may be 
Nemesis and the pageant shall be given for you. 
But it shall be intoxication of joy! See? The 
party that comes will surrender to natural de¬ 
lights. There is to be music with Phrygian flute 
and tinkling cymbals. It will be a burst of 
ecstasy. That’s what the Greeks called real liv¬ 
ing, you know. We modem people have lost the 
art of pleasure. And in the high pitch of en¬ 
joyment Bacchus the god of wine may distribute 
a little fmit of the vintage. Oh! —” 

“Ugh!” shrugged Madame Madorie. “I 
think it is, you may not count on me. It is you 
burn the candle at both ends. Eh? Amd *the 
butterflies get the wings singed. It is paganism. 
Ah! It is a hideous memory to me, one night in 
Paris. It was unrestrained. Extravagant. The 
spectacle was not made to the reason but to the 
senses. The good people, it was to blush. I can 
hear now the chuckles of the—what you sav in 
English? —low-brows. Ah! Monsieur Gray. 
The sweet village of Chamonix does not want 
such. It was all right for Greece in the times of 
the past. But today is today. And tonight 
should be today too. N J est ce pasV 9 

“Dear Madame Madorie!” interposed the ar¬ 
tist. “You don’t get my simple meaning. I 
must be very stupid at words. Now listen 
106 



Intermezzo. 


What I shall try tonight is a great experiment. 
Do you know the Yoga system of the Hindus? 
The ascetic life? The aspiration for the higher 
thought? The intoxication of the Soma worship? 
Well, we all crave excitement. We love the ele¬ 
vation of spirit, do we not? It is what drives the 
drunkard to his drink, or the fiend to his drug. 
To opium or arsenic or absynthe. It is the rap¬ 
ture, the delight, the joy of life. Tonight we 
shall show you a new —” 

“I understand, Monsieur Gray,” answered 
the woman conclusively. “I have been around 
the world too. And I know the ashes from the 
flowers. No? The love of delight is it not every¬ 
where? The sweet delight that does not burn to 
the ashes. The song birds have the outburst of 
rapture. The lark. The oriole. The red bird. 
N J est ce pas? And the little children in the street. 
They scream and laugh for joy. They sing and 
drink in the warm life. They have the pure joy 
of ravissement. So is the joy of the lover. Not 
spent in a moment to ashes. The joys of the 
warrior in the battle. The joys of nature. The 
sea. The mountains. The flowers. And the 
sweet delights of music. Ah! With music I 
could sit for the hours and forget the world. 
The joys of the mother, of —. But why should 
I talk to you so? You are the chevalier. You 
should know. Yes? No? 

107 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


“I have thought much about your perfumes,” 
said Gray suddenly veering the subject. “You 
have a fascinating creed, Madame Madorie. 
That the love of perfumes and fragrances re¬ 
veals the soul. I know you are right, too. What 
were those wonderful ravishments you gave me 
to smell last evening? One you called ilang- 
ilang.” 

“Ah, yes!” said the woman gazing very frank¬ 
ly into his face. 

“One was ilang-ilang. It comes from Burma. 
It is the fragrance of those who love the senses. 
You liked it, you said. So did Madame Gentry. 
The other was the spikenard. In India it is 
called nardostachys. The people there say it 
was used by Mary in the alabaster box of oint¬ 
ment, to anoint the feet of the Lord. Some¬ 
times it is for incense and the perfumed tapers 
in the churches. It is a very chaste fragrance. 
Like religion. Madame Gentry hated it. You 
like it. It is strange. Not so strange. You like 
both the ilang-ilang and the nardostachys. You 
are the two men in one.” 

“Perhaps that may be said of us all,” laughed 
Gray tearing the petals of a rose. “I love the 
ilang-ilang side of life. And I confess that oc¬ 
casionally I love the nardostachys side. You 
say well that the happiness of birds and children, 
108 



Intermezzo . 


the joys of warrior and musician are best. As 
an artist I know the pure joy of creation. And 
I know those joys have no bitter ashes for the 
ash man to wheel away next morning. I wish 
I had someone, an angel, I guess, to develop that 
side of me. Yes, goodness is a sweet thing. Per¬ 
haps the sweetest taste in the world, who knows? 
If our tongues weren’t all burnt out with bitter 
and sweet of sordid pleasures.” 

“Madame Madorie!” called a hidden voice 
from among the roses. The artist turned to see 
a woman appear around a bend in the garden 
path. It was the attendant of the day before. 
“I beg pardon, Madame, I thought you were 
alone,” she said. 

“You women look real women in everyday 
life,” laughed Gray. 

“Like our American women.” He smiled 
from Madame Madorie to her maid. The soft 
pink and white gowns were far removed from 
the purple and green of the night before. 

“Bon soir. Monsieur Gray,” said Madame 
Madorie, rising. “Jane calls the time for tea. I 
would invite you to sit down, but it is not a la 
mode. Eh? Sometime in the future, maybe.” 

The woman laughed lightly and to the sur¬ 
prise of Raymond Gray extended a hand in fare¬ 
well. The artist found himself bowing over it 
as subject before a Queen. 

109 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


“You will come tonight?” he asked. “At ten 
o’clock I shall send an escort, or call for you my¬ 
self.” 

“Thank you, Monsieur Gray. My maid will 
be the escort. We shall come at ten. With the 
perfumes as you say. Au plaisir de vous revoir!” 

The artist moved to depart but Madame Ma- 
dorie laid hand of restraint on his arm. After a 
moment of coloquy in French the maid disap¬ 
peared toward the cottage and Madame Ma- 
dorie turned to the artist. 

“Some day, do you have the time, Monsieur 
Gray, I love to hear of your wonderful America. 
It is the El Dorado land, the hope of the world. 
The beautiful Rocky Mountains. The terrible 
Chicago. The miracle—California. It is to see 
the California I live. Ah! I have not the words. 
I cannot say more. You are the artist to come 
from America to the Alps! It is strange.” 

“Yes, Madame Madorie,” replied Gray. 
“You think it strange I should leave the artistic 
wonders of America to paint the Alps. But I 
come to France to work with Coret. You must 
know of Coret in Paris. The greatest art dealer 
of Europe. Coret does not touch the brush him¬ 
self. But he advocates a new school of Impres¬ 
sionism or Naturalism. See? Coret and I shall 
work it out together. I put it on canvas and he 
110 



Intermezzo . 


puts it before the public. Coret is now the 
greatest critic and art promoter of the world. It 
is Coret’s studio I have up the slope. Coret is— 
Ah! What is the matter Madame Madorie? You 
do not feel well?” 

The woman showed ill restrained agitation in 
every line of her face. 

“It is nothing, Monsieur Gray. It is only that 
I think of America and the dear ones. Maybe 
it is someday I shall see America—and—we shall 
talk another day. Bon soir. Monsieur.” 

The artist struck with awe watched her disap¬ 
pear down the garden path toward the cottage. 
Her movements graceful as the drooping lilacs 
lingered in his sight. Her deep laughter lin¬ 
gered in his ears. The delicate fragrance of the 
woman outgardened the garden. Her consent to 
attend the party surprised him. The sudden 
agitation of her manner aroused his wonder. 
Then he leaped the hedge and strode swiftly up 
the slope. 

In the fast falling twilight the Alpine peaks 
towered far away like light houses. The distant 
outlines of the slope had faded in the deepening 
dusk. The lights of eventide were gleaming and 
blinking in the Valley of Chamonix. 


Ill 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


Chapter VII. 

THE APHRODITE SOIREE. 

UTP O make the potpourri,” instructed Ma- 
I dame Madorie, “first you drop in the 
rose petals. So. They are gathered from 
my garden this afternoon. Is it not, they bleed to 
make us happy? Now add the bezoin gum. So. 
Ah, no! No! Jane! Not so much of the laven¬ 
der, please. It brings up memories! Ugh! 
Sometimes, Monsieur Gray, we put in the brazier 
rinds of lemon and bay salt. We do not tonight. 
We want the fragrance to be quick, what you 
say in English—evanescent? Now pour in the 
oil of clove. So. Now a gill of brandy. With 
eau-de-cologne. And musk and sage leaves. 
Then the rosemary and yulan. It will be a fra¬ 
grance for the gods. You know, Monsieur 
Gray, of Poppaea? When the wife of Nero 
died, the Emperor burned on the Pyre all the 
spices and perfumes he could find in Arabia. 
The perfumes, is it not, they breath tribute of 
the heart?” 

“There’s a fragrance!” cried Gray. “Saturate 

112 



The Aphrodite Soiree . 


the leaves into every corner and litter every 
couch. We’ll have an effect to rival the hrain of 
Juno.” 

“You may light the tapers of incense, Jane,” 
continued the Doctor of Fragrance. “You have 
heard the gods own the perfumes, Monsieur 
Gray? In the pagan days of Mexico and Peru, 
choice flowers were laid on the idols in the tem¬ 
ples. For mortals to smell was forbidden. The 
fragrance was for divinity. Would a man or a 
woman touch with profane hands—ah! it was to 
die. For the stolen ravishment the gods would 
kill.” 

“Tonight we become gods, to breathe and drink 
delight!” laughed the artist. “Have always 
said we were meant for gods. These fragrances! 
This night the dome of the sky drops over my 
studio to pour out magic essence. Let me 
breathe that fragrance again. My friends say 
I’m always trying to get more out of life than 
there is in it.” 

Madame Madorie and her maid stood with 
Gray in a corner of the artist’s den. The Doctor 
of Fragrance was gowned in rose colored velvet. 
The wealth of black hair, the pale neck and arms, 
the chaste teeth and eyes of the woman set off 
folds of sumptuous attire. The artist had eyes 
for nothing else. Pretending to study the prep- 
118 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


aration of the potpourri, he observed her every 
movement. 

The studio had undergone transformation by 
artistic hands during the afternoon. Bowers of 
branches carried in from surrounding hillsides 
decorated the walls like a forest of trees. A 
false ceiling was improvised to represent the sky, 
with electric lights as stars. Tiny electric fire¬ 
flies glowed and blinked from the foliage. Rus¬ 
tic lamps were suspended here and there, dim¬ 
med by soft coverings of cathedral glass. The 
eff ect was moonlight in the woods. 

In one comer of the studio a tiny fountain 
bubbled water into flower boxes. In front stood 
a slight elevation for the musicians. One half 
the floor was cleared for dancing. Tables laden 
with fmits, viands, and bottles occupied the rest 
of the room. Beside each table were couches a la 
Roman. 

Gray looked with unmixed admiration on the 
display. He was shod with sandals and robed 
in Roman tunic, a brilliant white costume, bare 
of arms, and displaying his limbs below the knees. 

“Don’t you think it good setting, Madame 
Madorie?” he glowed. 

“It gives that higher feeling we discussed this 
afternoon. What did you say of the joy of song 
birds, or the laughter of children? Of the 

114 



The Aphrodite Soiree . 


ecstasy of the warrior? And of music? Madame 
Madorie! We shall have all these tonight, and 
more. You shall see!” 

Madame Madorie shrugged her shoulders. 

“Tell me again what it is I shall do, Monsieur 
Gray,” she asked. “You see the potpourri of 
perfumes. You are the diseur de bons mots. 
What you say? I have also other perfumes. 
Narcissus, lily, iris. Rue, cassia, ladslove. You 
shall tell when it is enough.” 

“Whatever you shall!” praised the artist. 
“May I call you to present a seance of the mys¬ 
tics? Eh? You understand Greek mysteries. 
And forget not you are Nemesis tonight, god¬ 
dess of justice. You know how the Greeks 
flocked to Delphi for knowledge of the future? 
You know how the oracles chewed laurel leaves. 
How the maidens drank from the fountain of 
the gods and breathed in the vapors of incense? 
How they fell into ecstasy and spoke the decrees 
of Fate? A little mysticism, as you will. It’ll 
work in with the rest of the program. What say 
you?” 

A scurry of feet sounded on the porch and the 
artist attended the door. 

“The musicians!” he called back. “Put on 
your masks, ladies. A shame to cover feminine 
faces! But secrecy—as every one knows—secrecy 
115 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


and concealment make mystery! There. I 
wouldn’t know you from Aphrodite herself, 
Madame Madorie.” 

French musicians filed into the studio. They 
were engaged from the: Hotel to dispense ca¬ 
dences for merriment. Now they deposited their 
instruments on the platform and looked about 
queerly at the masked figures. 

“No need for alarm, garcons!” assured Gray. 
“The guests will be here soon. Make ready for 
the dance. Let’s have Paris and Vienna music 
tonight! None of the jazz and jingle stuff, un¬ 
derstand. This is a select crowd you’re playing 
to, gentlemen. Shubert’s Serenade will answer. 
Spanish waltzes. Chopin and Beethoven. See? 
We have very soft ears—” 

“Parlez-vous francaisV’ asked the leader. 
“We no understand.” 

“Words wasted!” cried Gray disgustedly. 
“Madame Madorie! Will you tell him please? 
My French has spasms and coughs. Coret calls 
it an international insult.” 

Madame Madorie concluded a French ex¬ 
hortation to the musicians and the clock tolled 
ten. A confusion of feet was heard on the ve¬ 
randa and Madame Madorie’s maid took position 
as attendant at the door. A score of masked 
men and women in outlandish costumes filed in- 
116 



The Aphrodite Soiree. 


to the studio, laughing and gesticulating like 
children. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” laughed the host. 
“You are gods and goddesses tonight. Here you 
find the fruit of the vine. Help yourselves to 
cocktails, or Burgundy, or what you will. Es¬ 
pecially our American drink called Pleasant 
Death. Now, musicians, strike a waltz, and it is 
on with the dance!” 

To the soft strains of music the masked figures 
fell into one another’s arms and circled the 
studio. They paused for sips at the drinking 
bowls. Gray moved over to the potpourri where 
stood the Doctor of Fragrance. 

“The artistic instinct shall reign tonight, God¬ 
dess of Justice,” he whispered. “Did your eye 
ever before float on such a sea of display? Did 
you ever see such raiment?” 

“To speak truth, Monsieur Gray,” she re¬ 
plied, “I do not like it. The costumes, they are 
hideous. Why should you have such spectacles. 
Who is that woman in the colors of the rainbow? 
Ugh! It is gross! I do not know why it is you 
invite me here, Monsieur Gray—Pardon! Is it, 
you expect me not to be shocked?*’ 

“Pardon, Madame Madorie if some have bad 
taste,” he spoke in cautious voice. “The woman 
is Aphrodite. Come! Let me show you to a 
sip of wine. You must get into the spirit.” 

117 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


“You will excuse me from the drinks tonight, 
Monsieur Gray. I drink the mountain water be¬ 
fore I come. It is enough.” 

The music concluded and the dancers moved to 
the bowls of liquid again, laughing at idle noth¬ 
ings and toasting everything. 

“I introduce to you now,” cried the artist, 
“Professor Keublin, the virtuoso of Russia who 
will play, ‘The Dance of the Gnomes!’ ” 

A tail, awkward figure, from the hermitage 
rather than the footlights, stepped forward. He 
sat at the piano and rubbed his hands with mus¬ 
ing melancholy. Then with the detachment of 
creative genius he played the bit of imagery. In 
its darting movements one could hear queer little 
earth creatures whirring softly. The touch of 
the artist softened and flowed into Tschaikow- 
ski’s “Trioka” and the audience hushed as though 
subdued with phantom voices. When the ap¬ 
plause died away Gray stepped forward. 

“Gods and goddesses!” cried the artist. “Now 
to the set off of our program. Witness an in¬ 
troduction of the divinities. Jupiter himself, the 
Father of the gods, will preside and introduce 
his children. Friends! A toast! To the spirit of 
revelry and rejoicing. Let us drink deep!” 

A pompous figure with long beard and royal 
robes assumed a throne chair on the elevation. 

118 



The Aphrodite Soiree. 


His display of mock heroism brought a flourish 
of laughter. He donned a paper crown and 
waved a sceptre for obedience. 

“Ladies and gentlemen!” he cried in voice 
that tottered. “Pardon! Gods and goddesses, I 
should say. I am Zeus, sometimes called Jupi¬ 
ter. I was bom in a cave on Mount Ida, fed by 
nymphs on milk and honey. Tonight we dwell 
on Mount Olympus and feed on nectar and am¬ 
brosia. Now, I introduce other gods and god¬ 
desses. Aphrodite, come forth! No! No! We 
will have Aphrodite last! The best till the last, 
you know. Like good wine. Let us have Mars. 
Mars, step forth!” 

The figure of Jupiter rocked and blubbered. 
The audience encouraged him with hilarity. At 
the call for Mars a girlish voice replied. 

“Mars will be here later in the evening. He 
went mountain climbing up the Grepon and 
hasn’t returned.” 

“To bad for Mars!” gurgled the reigning di¬ 
vinity. “Well, let’s see about Apollo. Is Apol¬ 
lo here? Come forth!” 

An athletic figure showing through loose folds 
of Roman tunic stepped to the platform and sang 
out words like a tragedian. 

“I am Apollo,” he said. “The god of fruits 
of the field. Plato calls me the god of music. 

119 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


When I play the hills and trees dance and the 
brooks babble. I am also the god of the healing 
art, the divinity of archery and skill. Most of all 
am I the god of prophecy. I know the future. 
At Delphi is my Oracle. In my temple the 
statesmen come to learn the auguries of war and 
peace. To prognosticate the policies of colonies 
and political constitutions. I am Apollo!” 

“Apollo hasn't told the interesting part,” 
reeled Zeus. 

“There’s scandal connected with this divinity. 
Maybe the Priestess of Delphi can explain. 
Priestess of Apollo, thou art next!’* 

“Monsieur Gray!” protested Madame Mado- 
rie at the artist’s elbow. “It is I do not like it. 
The women, their dress! I do not like! I would 
g°—” 

“Sh!” interposed the artist. “You must have 
tolerance.” 

“The host of the evening invited me as Priest¬ 
ess of Apollo,” giggled a thinly draped young 
woman on the platform. “In the Oracle of 
Delphi I extort from the higher powers their 
secrets. The capricious gods will tell everything 
to a woman, you know. I and my maiden chew 
laurel leaves and drink from the holy fountain. 
We mount the tripod and breathe in vapors from 
divine incense. In the arms of the gods we fall 
120 



The Aphrodite Soiree . 


into ecstasy and pour out the secrets of heaven. 
The gods have a system of espionage and know 
all events of the world. Past, present and fu¬ 
ture. In the secret cells of our temple we hold 
exact news of kings and queens, of beggars and 
robbers. We know all things of terror and calm, 
of sorrow and joy, of fear and hope. I am the 
Priestess of Apollo.” 

“She hasn’t told all,” leered Zeus as the woman 
descended to the rollicking crowd. “She doesn’t 
mention the intoxications of Apollo. Well— 
ah! Let me see. Let us have Orpheus. Opheus. 
Friends, let me whisper it. Orpheus indulged 
in wine too much and had bad influence. The 
women of Thrace put the rogue to death. Or¬ 
pheus explain yourself.” 

The eyes of Orpheus laughed through his 
mask and he danced a playful jig. 

“Yes, the host asked me to play Orpheus,” 
grinned the man whose mask concealed his age. 
“I am god of music. I have the power of tumul¬ 
tuous revelry. I—. Wait, I’ll have to look at 
the instructions my host sent. Pardon. I am 
able to throw people into frenzy. I can make 
men march to battle and die singing. I can de¬ 
stroy reason. I can lift the soul to heaven. I 
am Orpheus.” 

“Now for Artemis!” laughed Zeus, as Orp- 
121 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


heiis descended the elevation. “You’ve got a 
sight when it conies to Artemis. Her other name 
is Diana. Great is Diana of the Ephesians! 
Born of the ocean foam and Uranos! In Cyprus 
maidens consecrated themselves to her with joy. 
The Temple of Solon was dedicated to the crea¬ 
ture in Athens. Diana! Don’t be so modest now. 
Come up!” 

The woman who appeared on the platform 
was confused at this introduction. She mumbled 
an apology in Italian and twitched her hands. 

“Chi face acconsente! I must to protest. I do 
not like. The introduction, it is too much!” 

The woman descended the platform with a 
flourish of indignation and Zeus hastened to 
make amends. 

“No harm meant, you know, Senora!” he 
bowed. “All in fun. Now let us on to other 
delights.” 

In rapid succession the divinities paraded on 
the platform. Pan, half-goat and half-man. 
Hermes, the messenger of the gods. Asclepios, 
son of Apollo, god of the healing art, of dreams 
and incubations. Eros, the creator god, of no 
father or mother, most beautiful of all to Cretans 
and Spartans, and god of discipline. Sea 
nymphs, and Poseidon, god of the sea. Then 
followed Tyche, the goddess of luck. Three wo- 
122 



The Aphrodite Soiree. 


men paraded as Fates, Ciotho, Lachesis, and 
Atropos. They were born from drops of blood 
which fell upon Ge from Uranos. Spinning the 
threads of life they allotted to every man his 
destiny. With great burst of applause Bacchus, 
the god of wine was presented. He leered to the 
platform in half mockery and half reality. Then 
came Pluto, the Zeus of the nether world, dressed 
in black. Coming from the shades of death, the 
drear region hated of gods and men, he cast a 
pall on the hilarity. 

“Now we come to Dionysos,” shouted Zeus in 
glee. “Let all have a glass of Pleasant Death 
and drink deep to Dionysos! Dionysos, the mul¬ 
titude calls you to the platform!” 

The toast was gulped and the artist groped 
his way to the throne beside Zeus. His speech 
was a trifle thick and he swayed as he spoke. 

“Gods and goddesses!” he sang. “Nice to 
have you all here. Beautiful drama we have to¬ 
night, eh, Zeus? Appeals to the imagination! 
Very artistic, we’ll say. Music and song and 
dance. The gods and goddesses of the Greeks 
were superior to anything we know today. A 
people of imagination, that put a tutelary deity 
over every department of life. Every joy has 
its god. Every stream has its fairies and god¬ 
desses. Great idea, eh, Zeus?” 

123 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


“Come!” cried Zeus interlinking arms. “Tell 
us who you are! Or don’t you know your name. 
Someone tell this baby his name!” 

“My name is Dionysos!” shouted Gray hi¬ 
lariously. “Homer wouldn’t admit me to Olym¬ 
pus. Called me the raving god. But I got there 
just the same. Broke open the gates, I guess. 
At my services the powers of body and soul have 
divine properties. See? We have a melody of 
Phrygian lutes and tinkling cymbals. Under 
the power of Phallus the devotees get into a state 
of joy. Ah, we have a pitch of enthusiasm when 
the vintage flows. I am Dionysos! And even 
Zeus has to admit the people like me best of all. 
Will you come to the platform Aphrodite? Aph¬ 
rodite, please.” 

The artist beckoned to the woman in gown of 
rainbow colors. As she stepped to the platform 
the presiding Zeus took her hand and introduced. 

“Aphrodite! Gods and goddesses. The lady 
to whom the party gives its name! Aphrodite 
and Dionysos—king and queen of the gods!” 

The party gasped and fell back at the display. 
Then they burst out in applause. The woman 
bowed in bold acknowledgment to the crowd. 
Then the glasses were filled for another toast and 
all drank deep. 

“We have omitted introduction of one of our 
124 



The Aphrodite Soiree . 


divinities,” cried Gray, lifting his glass. “Let 
us now have Nemesis. Goddess of Justice, who 
assigned to each his due. The avenger of gods 
and men. Nemesis! Will you please step for¬ 
ward? Ah, come! Nemesis!” 

Madame Madorie stood removed from the 
crowd. A score of peering masks turned in her 
direction. She gazed at the platform display a 
moment in silence, then shook her head. 

“Our Nemesis is silent tonight, as usual,” 
laughed the artist. “Modesty is her other name. 
As it is time for us to unmask I may as well say 
that our Nemesis is Madame Madorie. Madame 
Madorie, ladies and gentlemen! Doctor of Fra¬ 
grance, from Paris. Let us now to the tables. 
You will find ambrosia and nectar to your taste, 
I trust. On with the dance, and let joy he un¬ 
restrained. Masks off!” 

To animated strains of a Spanish waltz Diony¬ 
sos and Aphrodite led the dance, the cottage re¬ 
sounding to a chorus of song. 

“So you do invite that Madorie woman here 
tonight, Raymond,” said his partner in filmy 
rainbow. “Why is it you displease me again?” 
Does my wish mean nothing to you? What at¬ 
traction does this Doctor of Fragrance have? 
A new — ” 

“Sh! Violet!” cautionied Gray, “We just 
125 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


passed her at the corner. She was invited to scat¬ 
ter perfumes for the party. And isn’t it all given 
for you? You are the center of attention. What 
more can you ask? Or I give?” 

The dance ceased and the guests moved to 
find their cards at the tables. Aphrodite re¬ 
clined at the center table and TXionysos beside. 
At the table next removed sat Madame Madorie 
and her maid. And close by reclined Lillian 
Gentry, alone. The artist arose and made his 
way to the lonesome girl. 

“Hello, Tyche! You little goddess of luck!” 
he cried. 

“What is this? All alone? Where’s Mars?” 

“A dandy goddess of luck, I am!” she pouted. 
“Gaylord hasn’t come yet. The little fool cares 
more for the mountains than he does for me. 
Men don’t seem to care if they make us women 
unhappy. Besides, he may have fallen and 
broken his head. Here I am all dressed for the 
party. And Gaylord leaves me a wall flower!” 

Gray shrugged shoulders, went back to his 
table, and reclined to another drink. 

“Your little daughter is unhappy, I fear,” he 
said to Violet. 

“Gaylord hasn’t shown up.” 

“Another woman suffering!” sulked Aphro¬ 
dite. “Men are expert in making women weep. 

126 



The Aphrodite Soiree . 


The happiness and the misery men give women 
are of equal proportion. What Shylock said of 
the Jew—suffering is the badge of all our race. 
Why, Raymond, do you put that Madorie wom¬ 
an at the table next? She looks at me as though 
I had no rights. As though she owned you, or 
were your wife.” 

She lit a scented cigarette in disgust and 
looked her contempt into the carpet. 

“There, don’t get silly or absurd, Violet! 
Haven’t I tried to—” 

“Now you call me silly and absurd,” she re¬ 
monstrated indignantly. “Isn’t it enough to 
cross my wishes by inviting an unknown creature, 
a common fortune teller of Paris here? You in¬ 
sult me further by calling me silly and absurd. 
Very well!” 

“Come, dear! Listen to reason!” pleaded the 
artist, taking another drink. “You are the love¬ 
liest here tonight. The loveliest in all France, or 
the world. I adore you and am mad about you. 
And the gown is exquisite!” 

“Do you like it?” she replied, appeased. 
“Raymond, you used to make speeches like that 
to me. I thought your lips had forgotten them. 
You forget that a woman likes appreciation.” 

The couches on which the two reclined were 
end to end and the artist’s face was close to that 
127 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


of Violet Gentry. He reached over and touched 
her shoulder. 

“Some day, Violet! Some day I shall —” 

“Hush! Hush!” she commanded. “You have 
been drinking, Raymond. You talk in loud 
voice and the rest of your guests can hear. What 
will they think? There is that Madorie woman 
gazing again. She’s out of place here. I can’t 
see why you invited her to such — ” 

The words were broken off abruptly by a dis¬ 
turbance at the door. The interruption was so 
unlooked for and noisy the musicians ceased 
playing and the reclining guests sat suddenly 
erect. All eyes were turned in an instant to the 
entrance. There they beheld Dunbar Gentry in 
the door, pounding his cane and swearing volu¬ 
bly. 

“Where the devil is my wife? Now isn’t this a 
hell of a sight! This is—what the devil, shall I 
call it? It’s wanton! It’s gross! It’s license! 
This would prostitute the morals of the pagans! 
Where is my wife? I say, where is she?” 

The irate old man caught sight of the table of 
Raymond Gray and hobbled to the center of the 
room, shaking his cane vigorously and swearing 
without stint. 

“Are you my wife?” he thundered to Violet 
Gentry in raspy voice. 

128 



The Aphrodite Soiree. 


“I am,” answered the woman, a little abashed. 

“You will come home with me!” he com¬ 
manded decisively. 

“Look at that dress! And this drinking crowd. 
Little wonder you wanted France and Paris 
rather than the quiet of Long Island. And you, 
Gray, I’ll talk to you later. Come, woman. Get 
a coat to cover up those shoulders. I may not be 
a saint but I have a sense of decency when it 
comes to the members of my own family! Vi¬ 
olet, do you leave nothing to the imagination!” 

The guests gasped. Gray himself was stun¬ 
ned and said not a word. Amid ominous silence 
Dunbar Gentry and his wife made their exit. 
The artist sipped a glass, lit a cigarette, and 
commanded the musicians to play on, as though 
nothing of moment had occurred. Then he 
moved over to the table of Madame Madorie 
and bowed to her with effusive politeness. 

“It is, I shall have to go, Monsieur Gray!” she 
said coldly. “This is not the place for a woman 
alone. You invite me here to scatter the per¬ 
fumes. I am the guest in your home. So it is 
not for me to say. Things are—ah! what you 
say? — de mal en pis! I must to go!” 

“Ah, no! My dear Madame Madorie!” he re¬ 
monstrated, laying his hand on her arm. 

129 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


“Please do not to touch me, Monsieur Gray!” 
she flashed. 

“Do you take the liberties with me as with the 
Madame Gentry? I do not like it, sir! Will you 
get my coat? Shall I go de bonne grace> or shall 
I ask some gentleman to assist? If a gentleman 
is here!” 

The artist drew up sobered and blubbered 
apology. He moved across the studio to get the 
garments of Madame Madorie. The maid to the 
Doctor of Fragrance stood at the door in silent 
attendance. Gray paused and peered into her 
face, then laid his hand on her arm. She drew 
back with gesture of impatience. 

“You are insulting, sir!” declared the woman. 
“If Madame Madorie learns of this she —” 

“There! There!” he protested, reaching out 
his hand toward her again. 

The next instant Raymond Gray received a 
stinging slap. It struck his cheek and left a red 
trail across his mouth. He turned like a tiger 
to gaze into the inflamed face of Gaylord 
Powers. Something in the eyes of the figure 
confronting him stayed the return and un¬ 
clenched his fist. Powers stood in mountain 
climbing suit, dusty and tom, his appearance 
that of an enraged dog set for the fray. Lillian 
Gentry stood behind with terror in every line. 

180 



The Aphrodite Soiree . 


“I heard what you said, Raymond,” he snap¬ 
ped. “Just back from the Grepon to see this 
saliciousness. Do you stoop to insult a woman? 
Man! I thought better of you! I’d strike my 
own brother for such dirt! What’s the matter, 
Gray? Are you sober?” 

“You should be ashamed Gaylord,” snapped 
Lillian Gentry, “to strike a friend. Where is 
your sense of manliness? Oh! This is terrible. 
Take me home!” 

“My sense of manliness?” dilated Powers, 
pointing to his chest. “Right here and upper¬ 
most. When things get sane and sober tomorrow 
Gray himself wouldn’t forgive me for failing to 
defend a helpless woman from insult. You 
called me Mars, all right, and I’m on the job!” 

Gaylord Powers halted his words to follow the 
amazed look of Raymond Gray. All turned to 
gaze upon a new arrival. A great bulk of a man 
stood in the doorway curiously blinking to sur¬ 
vey the scene. He was tall and hugely propor¬ 
tioned. He removed his hat now to reveal a 
shock of gray hair. 

“Coret! Henrie Coret! As I live!” cried 
Gray, forgetting the sting and leaping forward 
to extend his hand. “Thought you were in 
Rome! What can bring you here, and at this 
hour.” 


131 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


“A strange sight, this,” answered Coret with 
heavy voice. 

“From the look of things, Gray, you follow 
suggestions and use my studio for art. I came 
to Chamonix yesterday.” 

“We’re, having an Aphrodite party, tonight, 
Coret,” explained Gray, rubbing an inflamed 
cheek. “Meet Gaylord Powers. We’re to fight 
a duel at sunrise and I ask you to choose the 
pistols. Powers, find your second 1” 

The artist turned with cold irony on Powers. 
The latter bowed distantly to Coret. The au¬ 
dience fell into awed silence. 

“Ladies and Gentlemen!” cried Gray leaping 
to a chair with ironical swagger. “Let me in¬ 
troduce to you our celebrated guest, Monsieur 
Henrie Coret, the greatest art dealer of Europe. 
The patron genius of the new School of Natural¬ 
ism. Let us drink to Coret!” 

Men and women rose giddily to their feet and 
lifted glasses on high. The icy glance of Coret 
lent little geniality and the crowd fell back. 

“Ah, Coret!” blustered Gray. “You must 
come over and meet the loveliest woman in the 
world. Madame Madorie of Paris, the Doctor 
of Fragrance.” 

The two made their way through the litter of 
tables to the center of the room. Gray searched 
132 



The Aphrodite Soiree . 


about for Madame Madorie. A painful expres¬ 
sion passed over his face. 

“Where has the Doctor of Fragrance gone?” 
asked Gray of a woman reclining on a nearby 
couch. 

“Disappeared a second ago through the side 
door.” She leered through rings of cigarette 
smoke and then turned with hollow mirth to her 
companion. 

A stumbling search over the veranda of the 
studio brought Gray back without the object of 
his search. In the confusion Madame Madorie 
had made hasty exit. Gaylord Powers and the 
maid had disappeared as well. Gray’s bleared 
eyes glared about stupidly. Ejaculations of 
contempt were heard on every hand and vocifer¬ 
ous Mon Dieus. 

Inside five minutes the guests evacuated the 
studio. The artist stood stupidly at the door 
bidding goodnight. When the last couple had 
taken wraps and departed, Gray turned to Coret 
pathetically, and stumbled into a seat at the cen¬ 
ter table. He reclined wearily and closed his 
eyes. 

“What the devil happens here tonight, Gray,” 
Coret asked gazing over the strewn wreckage of 
things. “Do you call this Art? Come Gray, 
turn out the lights and leave this cursed place. 

133 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


You must spend the night at the Hotel. You’ll 
find some time what I’ve found—that this house 
is damned by the spirits of the air. Let us be 
gone!” 

Gray shook his head ponderously and opened 
his heavy lids to see Gaylord Powers in the door. 
He rose slowly to his feet and the two onetime 
friends stood in prolonged exchange of glances. 
Coret sensed the situation and withdrew with a 
hurried goodnight. When he had gone Powers 
closed the door gently and both sat down. Noth¬ 
ing was said for long moments. Gray’s eye fell 
before that of the youth and gazed past the 
tables into the vacuous beyond. Then Powers 
rose softly and reached his hand to the artist. 

“As one friend to another,” he said. 

Slowly Raymond Gray lifted his eyes and 
looked full into the face that half smiled, half 
wept. Then he rose to his feet and the two grip¬ 
ped hands as men know how to do. 

The artist fell back into his chair, covered his 
face with his hands and burst into tears. 

Powers sat down and put an impulsive affec¬ 
tionate hand on the artist’s shoulder. 

“What is it, Raymond? Anything this hand 
can do to make the world right? Command me, 
old fellow!” 

“No, nothing you can do tonight, Gaylord,” 

134 



The Aphrodite Soiree . 


he replied with gesture of despair. “They say 
remorse is a brand of insanity. Not even God 
is architect enough to unscramble the past. Why 
wasn’t the fool killer present? No? Gaylord. 
Nothing more for the present. I want to do my 
thinking alone. Go to bed now and see me in 
the morning, good friend. Good night, Gay¬ 
lord 1” 


135 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


Chapter VIII. 

ASHES AND FLOWERS. 

T HE morning following the soiree found 
Raymond Gray a brown study in brooding 
^ melancholy. Powers arose early to observe 
the artist pacing furtively up and down the stu¬ 
dio, working doggedly at a bit of canvas. He 
confessed 1 he had spent a tossing, wandering 
night, with no sleep till break of dawn. His 
face revealed a ferment of feeling and the 
younger man surrendered to his uncommunica¬ 
tive mood. 

When Powers had departed to the village the 
artist set out down the slope. At the turn where 
the road wound into the Rue Nationale he made 
off toward the Montanvert. He strode swiftly, 
brandishing his cane, and casting his eyes into 
the verdurous vistas. He could give no name to 
the agitated tumult of his soul, but it seemed 
that his destiny had rounded a mighty promon¬ 
tory and brought his soul in sight of an open sea. 

His heart beating fast with the rapid stride 
gradually checked its pulses. The heat of the 
136 



Ashes and Flowers 


sun became oppressive and he turned aside into 
the deep shade of a beech. He sat down for a 
long time, head in his hands, lost in a confusion 
of painful ambiguities. 

His mind tried to draw back from the horrible 
world to which he knew Madame Madorie had 
consigned him. At one moment he decided it 
were best to depart, to submit to the inevitable, 
to ask for nothing. He turned away from that 
cowardly solution. In a faint, lingering mo¬ 
ment of hope he tried to see her in the attitude of 
self-surrender. Then tired with the long ex¬ 
halation of unrest he stretched out on the bank 
of moss and leaves. He gazed up through the 
leafy vistas and argued every point with remorse¬ 
less logic. The inevitable conclusion offered 
little help. In no degree or contingency, in no 
imaginable future, could he be anything to her. 
He could no more alter it than pull down the 
skies, the blinking, mocking void that covered so 
many sorrows. 

The burning state of his brain told him he 
cared more than he would honestly confess and 
he rose swiftly and strode back to the studio. 
Powers sat waiting for him. Neither broke the 
silence and Gray busied himself at nervous noth¬ 
ings. Then he donned his velvet coat and gave 
his hand to mixing paints abstractedly on the 
palette. 


187 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


Suddenly he pulled back the curtain from a 
large easel and revealed the portrait of a woman, 
half done. The figure sat in dressing gown with 
delicate draperies slipping from the shoulders. 
Objects of feminine toilette littered the room. 
The body breathed vitality and life against a 
background of chintz. But the face had been 
erased. 

“It’s a work I did in Paris, once,” explained 
Gray. “Had a beautiful courtesan sit for it. 
But her face had a leer of license in it that un¬ 
avoidably crept into the oils. Last night I 
cleaned the face from the canvas. The body was 
all right, you see. But the countenance! Know 
what I want to do? On that beautiful body I 
want to paint the face of a village girl I’ve met. 
Marie Paret. Met her yesterday at Madame 
Madorie’s. The most wonderful face nature 
ever made! And fresh as the snows of these 
Alps.” 

“Marie Paret?” asked Powers astonished. 
“Why I heard her name yesterday myself. My 
guide, Andre, is in love with the lassie. She is 
a favorite of Madame Madorie he said.” 

“Yes,” continued the artist. “She’s a miracle 
of grace. You know the Art Exhibit is to be held in 
Paris this autumn, Gaylord. I’ve wanted to put 
138 



Ashes and Flowers 


Marie’s face into this setting and enter the com¬ 
petition. There’s a South American here by the 
name of Madero. Is entering the works of 
South American and Spanish artists to the Ex¬ 
hibit. He was present at the party last night. 
Madero has agreed to enter a dozen of my works 
under an assumed name.” 

“Why under an assumed name, Raymond?” 
queried Powers. 

“Don’t you want the fame for yourself? Re¬ 
putation is bread and wine to an artist.” 

“True,” he answered. “But Henri Coret has 
put a monopoly on my works. Jealousy wants 
to exploit my brush for himself. I want to put 
a few works out without his knowledge to see 
how the public takes them. Coret tells me he 
wants to buy up the display. It will be interest¬ 
ing to see if Coret values my work for its own 
sake. It would be fascinating to watch him bid 
on my own pictures, not knowing they were 
mine.” 

Gray opened a cabinet and produced a half 
dozen pieces of landscape. 

“Tell me what you think of the technique and 
perspective of these?” he asked. “All variations 
of weather, you see. Subtleties of daylight, gray 
day, afterglow, and moonlight. Look at this 
one. I’ve tried to get the lyric mood of nature, 
139 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


that evanescent, epic something that no painter 
has ever done.” 

The subject was a hill with outcropping rocks. 
Above stretched a mystical evening sky, broken 
by ribbons of warm clouds. Giant trees but noth¬ 
ing spectacular—the great reality of sky and 
earth as felt in the twilight mood when the world 
seems expectant of something mighty to hap¬ 
pen. In color it was clean and mosaic-like and 
presented a harmony of restrained feeling. 

'‘Wonderful!” glowed Powers. “I know 
nothing of technique, Raymond. But that’s 
real! It takes one out of self. Transports me 
there! Say, old fellow, that ought to register!” 

“You don’t know the nightly toil I’ve had 
with pencil and charcoal, Gaylord. I have long 
felt that mastery of form is absolutely necessary 
in landscape. One must study nude nature, 
heaving hills and barren ground for landscape, 
as one would study the nude figure for portrait. 
Some of them are from the Rockies. Look at 
the vibration of light in this other. Everyone of 
these, Gaylord, was a wrestling of soul for me. 
The creation of any work of art demands, as 
you know travail and suffering, like the birth of 
a child to a woman. But the joy of it makes you 
forget the anguish.” 

The two stood inspecting the 
140 


canvasses. 



A she8 and Flowers 


Powers fondled them silently with his eyes, Gray 
with his hands. 

“Senor Madero of South America will put 
them on at the Exhibit,” he went on. “Under a 
nom de plume. But what I want most is this of 
Marie. Madame Madorie promised to chaperon 
Marie to the studio. I suppose that’s out of the 
question now. After last night’s foolery. Gay¬ 
lord, I don’t know of any fool that can get more 
in his own way than myself! Do you mind kick¬ 
ing me, or putting me out of my misery.” 

“Women are of a forgiving nature, Ray¬ 
mond. And as for the old man Gentry, what 
need to worry there? Lillian says his memory 
is only a day’s duration. Come! The past is a 
thing we can change as well as the future. It’s 
pliable like putty!” 

“It’s Madame Madorie I think of, Gaylord,” 
he replied. “That woman wears a queen’s crown, 
and I’ve been a brute of the antediluvian variety. 
You are familiar with Dante’s Hell, red pictures 
of the anguish of the doomed in Gehenna? The 
horrors of the unregenerate? Last night I went 
through the fires of Hinnon where the worm 
dieth not. Remember Dante in the wilderness 
surrounded by the Hons of pride, panthers of 
lust, wolves of avarice? How Vergil guides him 
to the mouth of hell—with its all hope abandon 
141 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


ye who enter here? Gustave Dore’s pictures of 
it don’t do justice to the hell I’ve gone through, 
Gaylord. I want to meet Madame Madorie and 
yet I’m ashamed to!” 

“Yes, Raymond!” replied Powers. “You stir 
again some boyhood memories. Along with 
Deadwood Dick I used; to read Dante’s nine 
cycles of Inferno. The great Judge Minos, con¬ 
signing souls to flame. The anguish of Frances¬ 
ca Dia Rimini, the terrors of Pluto, the miry 
wallowing in a Stygian lake, the city of Dis. 
But remember also Dante’s escape. Through 
love for Beatrice, wasn’t it? That’s one thing 
hell can’t have any hold on, Raymond.” 

“Do you recall, Gaylord, where Dante and 
Vergil emerged from Hell? How Cato directed 
them up the stony flights toward Purgatory and 
wiped the dust of Lucifer from their faces? 
How they were purged of pride and lukewarm¬ 
ness, of wrath and greed, of lust and envy? In 
the seventh terrace, I think, they plunged into 
flame and then into the pure stream of Lethe. I 
guess I’ve a deal of altar stairs yet to climb. 
You might be Vergil for me, if you will.” 

“I imagine I know a woman that could he 
Beatrice for you, Raymond,” said Powers seri¬ 
ously. “None other than the Doctor of Fra¬ 
grance! The woman admires you! I can read a 
142 



Ashes and Flowers 


woman’s eyes. Even if she is of your clever 
French and I a stupid American.” 

“I fear her respect, if she felt any, was burned 
to ashes last night,” he lamented. “What an 
asinine spectacle I presented! Oh, for a chance 
again at the past!” 

“A blunder like that can add value to the fu¬ 
ture if you’re a clever architect, Raymond. Con¬ 
sider the oyster. With a grain of sand in the 
mollusk, like a cinder in the eye, it builds a pearl. 
Even folly and asininity can work for good to a 
clever man. Go to Madame Madorie this after¬ 
noon, dear fellow, and open up your soul. I 
may have a two-fold reason. I may want you to 
stand well with her for my sake and her com¬ 
panion’s.” 

“I’m afraid I’ll mess up matters worse with 
my blunderbuss tongue if I do go,” lamented 
Gray, pacing the length of the studio. “She’s 
not like other women. I don’t know how to ap¬ 
proach her. She’ll probably be as strong and in¬ 
accessible as Mount Blanc or Grepon. What’s 
a fool like me to do?” 

“Come, come!”, laughed Gaylord. “It wont 
take Houdini to get you out of this difficulty. If 
Madame Madorie is distant as the Alps, struggle 
and toil to win as you’d do climbing Grepon. 
What you need is a good mountain climb any- 
143 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


way. I’m going up Grepon tomorrow. You’d 
do well to go along. Put some mountain climb¬ 
ing in your approach to Madame Madorie. Who 
wants a woman that’s easy to win? Or easy to 
hold? Get out of here and spin down the slope 
to her cottage. You’ve got too much Hamlet— 
sicklied o’er with pale cast of thought, lost the 
native hue of resolution, and all that rot. What 
you need is action. Now, go!” 

The sky might have been of cerulean blue that 
afternoon as Gray strode down the slope to Ma¬ 
dame Madorie’s cottage. To him it was brass. 
The birds might have outsung the tropics, the 
roses might have outbloomed Paestum, the at¬ 
mosphere might have outsweetened Paradise. 
They got no foothold in the artist’s meditations. 
His step had little of the elasticity he had shown 
in leaping the hedge the day before. His head 
did not occupy his shoulders with quite the same 
pride. 

Appearing at the cottage door he rang the bell 
gingerly. His heart beat so fast he was sure his 
voice would betray him. The maid answered 
and he doffed cap like a school boy. He was 
bowed silently into the drawing room. The long 
windows were open and the curtains were sway¬ 
ing in the soft wind. His eye wandered out into 
the garden and his thoughts wandered back to 
144 



Ashes and Flowers 


the happy conversation of—was it yesterday, or 
ten years ago? He heard a step and tried to 
marshal his distraught feelings. It was the maid 
again, come to explain that Madame Madorie 
was not to be found in the cottage nor the gar¬ 
den. She must have gone for an afternoon stroll. 

Gray made his way down the slope toward the 
Montanvert road, acknowledging to himself for 
the first time the degree of pain he suffered. 
Was fate going to play him hard and force him 
to pass another night of isolation and unrest? 
He struck out in a vain, wild hope of explora¬ 
tion. The fields and trees were of a cool metalic 
green. The gray light had a sheen of lead to it 
and the sun was blurred. For all this he had no 
eye. His gaze was directed down into a half 
lighted shaft that had been sunk in his heart. 

A subterranean voice was speaking to him 
and in language he had never heard before. It 
was the language of renunciation. Sacrifice, or 
the joy of sacrifice, was a principle that had 
never been allowed in the house of his think¬ 
ing. To renounce, to renounce—what were 
youth and desire meant for? He had always 
thought of sacrifice as a trap for fearful and 
weak minds. Now he felt something welling up 
within that let loose a spiritual rebellion. It was 
more a feeling than an idea, vague at first, then 
145 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


becoming clearer and clearer. It was a mighty 
urge to give up something and for somebody. 

Under the sway of this feeling he found him¬ 
self soothed rather than excited. After a half 
hour of rapid pace along the mountain path he 
sat down wearied on a log. He was in the wood 
but he knew the road was not far away. He 
could hear the faint murmur and gurgle of a 
mountain stream tripping along to join the Arve. 

Suddenly at a distance, through the trees, he 
detected the gleam of a woman’s dress. He 
rose quickly and moved to meet her. As he ad¬ 
vanced his hope was reassured—it was Madame 
Madorie. At first she took no notice of him and 
stooped to pick anemones. Then her eyes turned 
full upon him. Both stopped abruptly and stood 
looking gravely. Madame Madorie glanced at 
him sharply and coldly, then pityingly, and 
turned her gaze away. 

Gray found himself strangely calm and pos¬ 
sessed in her presence. He removed his cap and 
stepped toward her. 

“I’ve spent every minute since last night 
thinking about you Madame Madorie—and— 
and — ” 

She fixed wide open eyes on him. The inten¬ 
tion of her attitude was all remonstrance, refusal, 
dismissal, and she answered nothing. 

146 



Ashes and Flowers 


“I came to get your pardon, Madame. Your 
pardon for last night. You honored my studio 
with your presence and I played the fool or 
worse. Is it possible I could find your good grace 
again?” 

To this again the woman replied nothing. She 
looked away through the trees and then began 
to assort her anemones. Gray sensed the tense¬ 
ness of the atmosphere and was maddened at the 
silence. 

“Come, Madame Madorie ! Don’t be too severe 
on me. I’ve gone through my fires of hell since 
daybreak. Even heaven forgives, you know. 
And the quality of mercy is twice blessed.” 

“It is, Monsieur Gray,” she answered looking 
him decisively in the eye, “I do not hold to the 
resentment. The bitter cup, who wants to drink 
it? I have tasted its dregs too much already. I 
do not resent any more—I just try to forget. To 
forget and avoid.” 

She tried to utter her words calmly but the 
next moment strong emotion baffled this pretense 
and she burst into tears. One smothered sob 
that showed Gray the bottom of her heart and 
she drew up possessed again. He longed to ex¬ 
press his sympathy but something in her made 
him draw back indefinably afraid. 

“I was caught last night in the wheels of 
147 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


folly,” he remonstrated. “I was not really my¬ 
self. I—” 

“Ah—you were not really yourself?” she broke 
in. “Which is the real Monsieur Gray? What is 
it I tell you—you are the two men. You have 
the two natures. In the one breath you love the 
two kinds of fragrance. If I forgive the Mon¬ 
sieur Gray that was last night, what does that 
mean for the Monsieur Gray that is today? 
Sometimes the forgiveness, it is, what you say in 
English—indulgence? N'est ce pas?” 

“Forgive me if you can’t forget!” he pleaded. 
“I’ve been very unhappy today. I didn’t know 
I cared so much. I —” 

The tears welled up into his eyes and his voice 
shook with emotion. She looked at him pitying¬ 
ly and her face softened. Then she reached out 
a hand and he pressed it eagerly. Silently he 
pointed to the rustic seat on the log and she sub¬ 
mitted to his invitation. She sat down, her eyes 
modestly on her anemones which she arranged 
into a bouquet. 

“I hope, Madame Madorie, you’re going to 
let me come to know you.” His voice rang with 
an unfamiliar joy. “Give me a chance to let you 
see a different Gray.” 

“You must sit down yourself, Monsieur Gray,” 
she pointed. 


148 



Ashes and Flowers 


“To know all, is it not to forgive all? You 
remember what I said two days ago, out of the 
crystal? Some great sorrow, some great joy will 
come to make two men one in Monsieur Gray.” 

“The joy has already come, Madame Madorie. 
It’s the joy of knowing you. There’s that about 
you I’ve never met in other women. I feel to¬ 
ward you as I’ve never — ” 

“Monsieur Gray, you must not to speak so!” 

Her words now were pronounced cautiously 
and solemnly and her eyes searched his. She 
touched her lip guardedly. 

“Monsieur Gray. The world, it is not what it 
seems. Nor the people in it. You do not know 
me. What I might tell you you could not be¬ 
lieve. But some day the truth shall be known. 
You know the book, it says, every hidden thing 
shall be shouted from the house tops.” 

“Anything I can do for you? Command me.” 

“Yes,” she answered meditatively. “Some¬ 
time. It may be tomorrow. Maybe ten years 
from now. Some day you may be called to act. 
Some day the vengeance of the Gods will fall. 
Maybe you could be the friend then.” 

Her last words were spoken fiercely. Gray 
sat back gazing on her sad drooping eyelids. 
Soft fingers of light flitted down through the 
bowers of leaves and caressed her hair. Her 
149 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


face mellowed again into compassion and her 
lifted eyes glowed with tenderness. Gray reach¬ 
ed over and gently touched her hand but she 
withdrew it. 

“No, no! Monsieur Gray,” she remonstrated 
in her queer French accent. “On connait V ami 
au besoin . I am Madame Madorie and you are 
Monsieur Gray. You must tell me now about 
the Art. My ears are eager to listen. We say 
in Paris —revenons a nos moutons ” 

“I’m specially eager to paint your little girl, 
Marie, Madame Madorie,” he went on, watch¬ 
ing her deft fingers arrange the flowers. “I have 
all but her face painted now. From memory. 
See? When will you chaperon her to my study 
for the finishing touches?” 

“I do not care for a few days to leave my cot¬ 
tage,” she answered. “If you wish to come there 
to paint the little fairy, you are welcome. Do 
not ask me why.” 

“Very well!” he glowed. “Nothing could 
suit me better. I’ll bring pigments and canvas 
there. I am eager to have the work concluded 
soon. You see, the Paris Exhibit takes place in 
June. I want to put a few pictures on display 
unbeknown to my friend, Coret. A South 
American, Senor Madero, has agreed to pre¬ 
sent them under a nom de plume. I wish to 
150 



Ashes and Flowers 


learn if the new art of Naturalism will go on its 
own merits. I shall put Marie’s picture forward 
and several landscapes I have had in reserve.” 

“Do you tell me, Monsieur Gray, who is 
Monsieur Coret?” 

“You must have heard of Coret in Paris, 
Madame. He is the greatest art dealer of 
Europe. Not a painter, himself, you see. But 
a promoter and a patron. I met him in Cali¬ 
fornia a year ago. He wants to use me as the 
American find of the day. Wants me to paint a 
new interpretation of Naturalism in portrait and 
landscape. About Coret himself I know little. 
Rumors of all kinds circulate about him. He 
is eccentric beyond all power to understand. But 
he has treated me as a scholar and gentleman. 
Had you waited last night, you had met him at 
the party. But let’s not speak of that.” 

Madame Madorie sat gazing into vacancy dur¬ 
ing this recital. She recollected herself sud¬ 
denly and attended the arrangement of her 
flowers. 

“What is in your mind, Madame Madorie? 
Do you know Henri Coret?” 

She rose and walked toward the road quickly 
and then called, “Marie! Marie! Come here!” 

The next moment Marie Paret with armful 
of dogwood entered the glade laughing. The 
sight of Raymond Gray subdued her. 

151 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


“Monsieur Gray will paint you soon, 
Marie, at our garden studio and I shall be the 
chaperon. See? You must come in the pretty 
dress and Monsieur Gray, he will do the rest. 
He will give the coup de maitre/ J 

A beautiful child of five ran behind Marie 
chasing a butterfly. Madame Madorie stooped 
and picked him up. She showed a bit of con¬ 
fusion as she turned to Gray. So the artist 
thought. 

“Archie, this is Monsieur Gray. Archie 
Madorie. Now we must say bon soir. Monsieur 
Gray will call tomorrow?” 

Raymond Gray bowed his consent and stood 
watching the three figures disappear into the 
foliage toward the road. Then he strode up the 
path toward Chamonix. The forest flowers sent 
bedazzlement into the light. He felt the royalty 
of the leaves and breathed their perfumed olive 
green. The sun purpled the woods until they 
became varieties of flame made up into flowers. 
Nature exhaled caresses and sighs. 

He walked on under branches of sycamores 
that tried to embrace one another. He heard the 
triumphant twittering of linnets and wood¬ 
peckers gently tapping the oaks. Bees hummed 
about and swallows flew to the honeysuckles and 
jasmines. He felt the very life exhale and the 
152 



Ashes and Flowers 


sap overflow, revealing the enormity of the 
source beneath creation. 

The silence of the evening was heavy and com¬ 
patible with a thousand strains of music, fond¬ 
ling tones of natures and palpitations of the 
wind. It was the vanguard of June’s fraterniz¬ 
ing with the rear guard of May. 

“Hello, Raymond,” laughed Powers from 
the studio veranda. 

“You’re looking better. Dinner’s ready and 
I’m starved.” 

The two laughed and linked arms and walked 
into the dining room. Gaylord chattered idly 
over nothings during the meal. He remarked 
his companion’s proneness to muse and set down 
his liquor untasted. 

“Violet and Lillian inquired for you today, 
Raymond. I told them they couldn’t see you to¬ 
morrow. That you were going to climb the 
Grepon with me. Did I say right?” 

Powers searched Gray through and through. 

“Climb the Grepon tomorrow?” mused the 
artist. “I climb the Grepon?” 

“Yes, the Grepon. My guides, Dore and 
Pierrot and I set out to do the Grepon yester¬ 
day but it was the thirteenth and Pierrot was 
superstitious. We did Mount Blanc instead. 
But tomorrow it’s Grepon, the toughest climb in 
the Alps. Are you on?” 

153 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


Gray appeared puzzled for a moment. Then 
a new look of resolution gripped the lines of his 
face. He looked squarely into Power’s eye and 
slowly extended his hand. 

“You may count on me, Gaylord, for the 
Grepon.” 


154 



The Roof of The World . 


Chapter IX. 

THE ROOF OF THE WORLD 

I T was eight o’clock that night when Powers 
and Gray left the voluptuous softness of the 
studio on the hillside. They stepped forth 
into the moon-bathed air and lifted their eyes 
to survey the marble walls overhead. They 
would make Montanvert in two hours, the first 
leg of the journey up Grepon. Then the youths 
threw heavy packs lightly on their shoulders 
and stepped boldly toward the Rue Nationale. 
Their way lay direct across the boulder-strewn 
wash of mountain torrent that divides the village. 
The Arve gleamed white and frosty in the faint 
light and laughed merrily over the stones. A 
few minutes more and Gray and Powers drew 
up at the Royal Hotel. The dazzle of lights 
from the veranda appeared to recoil from the 
trees, or rather, the trees from the artificial lights. 

“Oh! Here you are! Dore and Pierrot!” 
cried Powers extending hand to the guides. 
“Andre and Jean I’ll call you. Are you ready 
for the battle? Andre and Jean, meet Mon¬ 
sieur Gray.” 


155 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


“■Bon ami!” cried the younger man. "Soyez 
fermes! Nous avons tons assez de force pour 
supporter les peines—” 

“Come! Come!” laughed Powers. “I’ll have 
enough climbing to scale the Grepon. I can’t 
be climbing French too. Remember you agreed 
to talk English. My French is Parlor French.” 

“It is right,” laughed Jean Pierrot in broken 
English. “It is English we shall parle—Ha! 
Ha! It is English we shall speak. But it is 
Andre can talk. He is the better English-” 
They laughed and slapped one another on the 
shoulders. Jean Pierrot was a man of forty. 
His lithe frame was tall and sinewy with move¬ 
ments quick and nervous. His rough face was 
weather beaten and under the sharp eyes and red 
moustache a Swiss pipe curled spirals of smoke. 
A younger man by twenty years was Andre 
I tore. He stood a foot shorter than his com¬ 
rade. His massive shoulders and deep chest sug¬ 
gested a wrestler of no mean ability. Both 
guides seemed forever on the point of laughing 
from head to foot. As the four men shouldered 
packs and passed the corner of the Hotel toward 
the Montanvert Road they halted abruptly. 

A young woman draped in long shawl stood 
remonstrating with a man that blocked her path. 

“Why do you stop me?” cried the girl in 
frightened tone. 


156 



The Roof of The World . 


“I said nothing to you. And you put your 
dirty hand on my shoulder. Isn’t a woman safe 
in Chamonix at night! You are no gentleman 

_ 55 

“No offense, little girl,” blubbered a drunken 
voice. 

“Can’t a fellow talk to a little peach like you? 
I have oodles of money—and if there’s anything 
you want — ” 

Gaylord Powers dropped his pack and leaped 
across the intervening space. In half a second 
the hugh bulk of the offender lay horizontal on 
the dirt of the road. Jean and Andre laughed 
boisterously and clapped their hands. 

“Ah! You have the spirit!” shouted Andre 
“It is the spirit that will climb the Grepon! 
Viola tout! He is the American!” 

“You are not hurt, Madam?” asked Powers 
peering through the dim light into a frightened 
face under the shawl. “Ah! You are the friend 
of Madame Madorie’s. I must see you safely 
to your cottage. This brute —” 

“It is very kind of you,” replied the girl grate¬ 
fully. 

“Madame Madorie just sent me down to buy 
food. She was afraid this might happen. But 
I think sir, I’m all right now. Thank you so 
much, Monsieur Powers.” 

157 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


The girl turned swiftly and disappeared be¬ 
yond the statue in the square. Without word 
Powers picked up his pack again and hoisted it 
to his back. The bulk in the dirt climbed stupid¬ 
ly to an erect position and dumbly wobbled into 
the side entrance of the Hotel Royal. Andre 
and Jean had succumbed to the pall of silence 
as well. They fell in solemnly now behind the 
long stride of Powers as he swung into the Mon- 
tanvert road. 

“It was Henri Coret? Did you notice, Ray¬ 
mond?” asked Powers at length. “Yes,” an¬ 
swered the artist. Nothing more was said. 

The tyro soon yielded the direction of the 
course to the guides. The path wound up the 
slope with many a curving kink and fold like 
ribbon. Darkness covered the floor of the canyon 
below except for the fast receding twinkle of the 
village. But at every turn the mountain spurs 
gleamed on ahead. They had an elusive way of 
climbing higher into the sky as the four plunged 
on. Soon the faint lights of the village were en¬ 
tirely lost to view behind enveloping pines that 
hugged the road. With every step they were 
climbing. 

The journey from Chamonix to the Montan- 
vert is up several thousand metres of elevation. 
It was accomplished pretty much in silence. 

158 




The Roof of The World . 


Human silence. There was a faint rustle of wind 
through the pines like a crying babe. An oc¬ 
casional rumble of waters in the valley. And 
strange night sounds that the guides knew how 
to interpret. But there was no colloquy. Gay¬ 
lord continued moodily grave and preoccupied 
and the guides sensed his mood. They trudged 
along alike deaf mutes, or foreigners who did 
not ken one another’s speech. The only break in 
the human silence was heavy breathing. At 
every step, Gray thought of the tumultuous 
events of the day. 

He could see a hand and face he scarce 
dreamed of touching. He could hear a soft voice 
that quivered with pathos and yet breathed an 
unfathomable strength. Madame Madorie 
would respect his resolution and he imagined the 
dilation of her eyes when she learned of his con¬ 
quest of Grepon. He moved on in the footsteps 
of the guides, his mind in a state of delicious as¬ 
ceticism, his heart flooded with an emotion that 
made him in all other matters a stranger to the 
business of living. His feet might walk in the 
mud but his thoughts were floating like thistle 
down, transported, ignorant of the rut of yes¬ 
terday, today and tomorrow. 

Considerably after ten o’clock they drew up 
at the Montanvert. The shades of the hotel were 
159 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


drawn and the place breathed an air of retire¬ 
ment. They entered the ale room and sank 
heavily into easy chairs. Gaylord Powers smiled 
across at the guides. They were good men and 
true, try them how one would. 

Montanvert is the threshold that divides hu¬ 
mans into actors and spectators. In that neutral 
zone the die is cast and the election of the timid 
and the strong takes place. A rabble of idle 
gazers comes daily to Montanvert and goes no 
further. These spies enter for only a moment 
into this promised land and return to report 
through their telescopes. They drink strong 
wine or feeble lemonade. They give cries of 
wonder and amazement. They shiver at the 
vasty heights and spaces, wrap their shawls and 
coats the tighter, cover their eyes to protect them 
from the dazzling brilliance of the snows. Then 
they revert to their comforts. 

Only a few are a trifle degree bolder. They 
step out as far as the Mer de Glace. They ad¬ 
mire the motionless river of ice, the foam waves 
frozen hard, the deep and treacherous gullies, 
the snow bridges that lead on to the heights. 

Faces that have witnessed all the sights of the 
world gaze fixedly at the unwonted spectacle. 
Impassive countenances are shaken with emo¬ 
tion of mystery and awe. They go as far as the 
160 



The Roof of The World . 


railings and snap the panorama with cameras. 
What are the noises of city streets to this silence! 
What are the palaces of city thoroughfares to 
this vast cathedral! Now their timid souls shrink 
back from crossing the doorstep of the shrine. 

Another brand of human being is to be found 
here. They pass in and out carelessly among the 
the jostlers. A far away, poetic look is on their 
rough faces and in their sharp eyes. They are 
to be known by their respectful intimacy with 
the mountains with which they are on terms of 
friendship. An oligarchy of climbers, they. An 
aristocracy of the brave who love the peaks as 
well as the valleys. The monsters of rock are 
altars to them and they come ever and again to 
this Mecca for a renewal of their vows. On these 
mountain crags they perform their sacred rites, 
terrible at times. Blood sacrifices! Human 
sacrifices! And their faces wear a mystic light, 
as though at peace with the Great Pan. 

Here the hardy school of mountain climbers 
find indulgence for their new passion of mad¬ 
ness. They wrestle with death by day. At night 
they gather in the Montanvert to laugh at the 
vanities and weaknesses of their feeble brothers 
in the cities. Theirs is the wild joy of daring for 
the sake of daring. 

A group of hardy mountain wrestlers sat 

161 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


drinking and laughing in the ale house. The 
artist and Gaylord Powers sat down to joke 
with the landlord. The low hall was quaintly 
lighted with oil lamps and panelled with larch- 
wood. With royal gesture the fat proprietor re¬ 
cited them the history of Montanvert and a maid 
served wine and cheese. The warm atmosphere 
and the rumble of the landlord’s voice persuaded 
Raymond Gray’s head to droop on his shoulder. 
The guides at the next table pointed humorously. 

“We will need all the sleep, Monsieur 
Powers,” laughed Jean Pierrot. “You tumble 
into the bed and we knock the door at three 
o’clock.” 

“Come Gray! You’ll not need to be rocked 
in your cradle tonight,” laughed Powers and he 
bade them goodnight. 

Shortly after the old landlord left his door 
Raymond Gray fell into the profound sleep of 
fatigue. But it proved restless sleep, the sleep 
of a boy anticipating the circus next day. Dur¬ 
ing the Hours before dawn his restless mind tossed 
on a sea of dreams. His heart beat loudly and 
mumbled out groans. Once he dreamed of 
dangling along a convex wall between heaven 
and earth. Or was it heaven and hell? He tried 
to hug the great mountain that eluded his em¬ 
brace. It stood cold and heartless. God! Was 
162 



The Roof of The World. 


there no human help? Must his blood be spilled 
on the sharp rocks below? Was the great giant 
laughing him down? He saw a pale woman 
across a vast gulf reaching out piteous, helpless 
hands of appeal. 

Then came prolonged knocking at the door. 
The voice of Andre was calling him to arise. It 
was the laughter of the guide he had heard in his 
dreams. Now it sounded sweetly human and 
welcome. 

In the still of the night the enthusiasts arose 
and made ready their tools for the ascent. 
Powers and Gray strapped on climbing shoes 
and close fitting Alpine suits and over their 
shoulders were slung axes and ropes. 

As they stepped from the friendly shelter of 
the Montanvert only a small spot of sky was 
visible, as from the bottom of a deep well. In 
the distance they could hear the rumble of in¬ 
visible waters coursing through the valley. It 
was an awkward and unwonted hour and their 
eyelids still heavy protested the robbery of hours 
of accustomed sleep. On they marched now as 
driven by a will not their own. 

The artist was still victim to the fantastic 
dreams of the night and as they stumbled along 
the silence of the guides intensified his fears. 
Tiny incidents by the way would stab him in the 
163 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


heart. Superstitious presentiments chased one 
another in a riot through his brain. Was this the 
sensation men felt in crossing the Bridge of 
Sighs to their execution? He shivered and made 
stupid promises never to be fulfilled. 

Then as he looked up toward the mountain to 
be climbed it seemed to reach him a hand of 
friendship. The thought of scaling the heights 
stirred his soul, and the challenge of it became 
the only reality in the mass of phantoms. The 
queer fears bred of dark hours before the dawn 
began to flee. The early morning light broke 
gently and the brood of doubts melted away like 
ghosts. 

In the Valley of Chamonix the transforma¬ 
tion from darkness to daylight takes place as by 
magic. It startles. The day leaps on one sud¬ 
denly like a cat. The effect is melodramatic. It 
reminds one of nothing as much as the stage of 
a theater. The lamps are lighted one by one in 
quick succession till all is aglow. 

At three in the morning they had started un¬ 
der the starry sky. It was a walk of two hours 
to the moraines. Just a little before arriving at 
the glacier the four climbers looked up at the 
vast outline of Charmoz. It was bathed in pur¬ 
ple shadows and like a vast stage curtain kept 
out the sun. Suddenly Andre grapsed the arm 
of Gaylord Powers and pointed to the sky. 

164 



The Roof of The World. 


“The sun is up. Monsieur Powers! Bonne 
chance! Lift the eyes. Is it not wonderful?” 

They paused to gaze up at the tremendous 
heights, just in time to see a ray of light strike 
the summit. It resembled a flame on a massive 
candle. They stood struck silent and astonished. 

A few steps beyond the bold explorers came 
to the iron railings erected for defense against 
the glacier. It was here that timid tourists usual¬ 
ly paused. Obvious warnings of danger ahead 
invited return to the comfortable veranda of the 
Montanvert. Henceforth the way of conquest 
was straight and narrow and few had the stiff¬ 
ness of vertabrae to enter. 

“The Glacier des Nantillons!” cried Andre 
Dore, pointing the novices across the ice sheet. 
“It is the place of danger. See! But Jean, he 
know the way all right. He go first, and then 
you. I will come behind. Ah! You are not 
afraid? N’est ce pas?” 

It produced a smile in Powers to hear the 
stilted English of Andre. It was often incor¬ 
rect. And more often painfully correct, as Eng¬ 
lish learned from a book. His good humored 
laughter produced ready response in the guides. 

“Your English, Andre!” he jollied. “Pardon, 
garcon, if I laugh. Your English is all dressed 
up in white waist and clean pants. It’s afraid 
165 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


to get dirty. No! No!” he remonstrated when 
he saw himself misunderstood. “No! I’m not 
talking about myself. About your English. 
Your words. No! I am not afraid. You will 
find I can follow wherever you go. A good 
strong body. See? I do boxing and running in 
America. And a good strong heart!” 

Another hearty volume of laughter and the 
four adjusted packs to cross the Glacier des 
Nantillons. The mighty mass of snow and ice 
was a river of frozen liquid. Billows and eddies 
of it rose and fell like a cataract. Gray thought 
of frozen Niagara. Or some fabulous river of 
petrefaction he had read of in wierd books of 
fiction. And yet there was motion in this river. 
Inevitable motion. Motion that took centuries. 
Invisible motion a thousand times slower than the 
motion of the hour hand on a cathedral clock. 

The vast tide of ice flow dashed frozen spray 
against the rough walls of the opposite moun¬ 
tains and hugged them in crafty embrace. Mas¬ 
sive rocks at the base of the hugh giant splintered 
the broken waters, and like divers rising from 
the ice lifted their heads free to the heavens. In 
the dazzling sunlight now the glistening figures 
of a thousand knolls and undulations surged with 
life and motion. Or was fancy running away 
with reason in this maelstrom of Nature? 

166 




The Roof of The World . 


Jean Pierrot went ahead. There was that 
about the French guide’s feet that reminded one 
of the hoofs of a mountain goat. It made as¬ 
surance doubly sure for the neophites. Gay¬ 
lord Powers followed and grew increasingly 
thankful for the iron spikes on the soles of his 
mountain shoes. Gray followed Powers, and 
Andre Dore drew up the rear, whistling softly. 

At first the passage was disappointingly easy. 
Gray began to compliment his own might. Not 
that the glacier was infantile but his own strength 
was giant. Then suddenly the passage became 
difficult. The ice was cleft into deep and yawn¬ 
ing fissures invisible from the security of the 
shore. Often the abutments were connected by 
treacherous bridges of snow. On either side de¬ 
clivities fell sheer into caves of darkness, and 
strange objects threatened before and behind. 

Jean Pierrot moved steadily and quietly on. 
He seemed unaware of danger and cast not a 
glance to the rear. The artist did his best to 
conceal pusillanimous doubts from the boy that 
followed. But, try as he would, he could not 
shut out the picture that had been painted on his 
brain on the evening before by Violet Gentry. 
The fear of it gripped him. He visualized a 
human form slipping on the icy ledge and 
plunging down the incline. What was there 
167 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


at the bottom of those black caves? It was to lie 
there till the Day of Judgment? Was the air 
black, too, and unbreathable down there? Gray 
perspired despite the cold waves of air that rose 
from the snow path. Then the gentle and sub¬ 
dued whistle of Andre behind strengthened his 
soul. He heard the lilt of an Arcadian love 
song. In another moment he was himself. He 
hoped the guides had noticed nothing of his in¬ 
ward battle. 

“What a delightful scramble!” laughed Gray 
when they set foot at last on solid ground. “I 
wish we had it to do over!” He knew in his own 
heart that his words were bravado. Whistling 
through the graveyard to keep up spirits. He 
knew he was talking to himself and that his feel¬ 
ings were mostly gratitude for dangers past. 
Even the hard boulder under his feet now felt 
soft and velvety. It was welcome after the 
treacherous ice. 

“It shall be again tonight,” replied Andre. 
“We should get back to this point by eight. Eh, 
Jean? You see the crack in the side of the moun¬ 
tain there? Soon, the fun, it begins. It is the 
Mummery Crack that leads to the top of Gre- 
pon. Mummery was the first man to climb. He 
was a great Englishman. He climb up the crack 
and on to the top where only the birds of the sky 
168 



The Roof of The World. 


had been. He was a very great man! He come 
to this Valley to show the French how to do it. 
Now the French show the English and Ameri¬ 
cans how! Ha! Ha! Is it not to laugh?” 

Andre Dore slapped his youthful protege on 
the shoulders. Somehow there was no familiar¬ 
ity in it and Gaylord Powers enjoyed the touch 
of human affection. He looked toward the 
Mummery Crack that Andre described. It was 
what is known in Alpine climbing as a chimney. 
It was a small crack in the face of sheer rock 
through which a human body might twist itself 
and worm a way to the ledge above. 

The artist involuntarily shivered. The face 
of that cliff was armed with knifelike hostility. 
Another look at the rocky walls and he wondered 
who could surmount them. Who but a criminal 
filled with desperation and given all but super¬ 
human powers to climb from his dungeon? Who 
but one that had all life or death at stake in the 
wild throw? He had heard of the terrors of the 
Grepon. Here they were now, throwing their 
challenge into his teeth. 

Gray stood to his height and breathed in deep¬ 
ly. He had put his hand to the ploughshare. 
There was no turning back. He felt now the 
surge and joy of battle in his blood. It was for 
this thrill he had come and his mind gave way to 
169 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


the domination of one idea. The necessity of 
climbing. He quickly turned to his companions. 
They had been watching him closely. 

“I am ready! Gaylord! Andre! Jean!” he 
cried. “Why do we wait? Other men have gone 
up the Mummery Crack. And why can’t I? 
Let’s on!” 

Jean Pierrot smiled a big smile of human feel¬ 
ing between clouds of tobacco smoke and Andre 
Dore broke into his boyish laugh. But it was a 
laugh of reassurance. In a few moments more 
they stood at the foot of Mummery Crack. 
Ropes were uncoiled for ascent. 

“I will go ahead!” cried Andre with bashful 
smile. “It is only once before that Jean, he let 
me go first up the Crack. He thinks it danger. 
We have it in the French, you know. Impossible 
n 9 est pas un mot francais! It is English—impos¬ 
sible is not a French word! Ah! You know! I 
have the belle in the Valley. I tell her yesterday 
I go first up the Crack today. She smile in my 
face and I —! Well!” 

“It is to be careful!” admonished Jean with 
authority. “I make the promise always to his 
father to take good care of the boy! Gardez 
bienr 

Andre who stood blushing at mention of his 
beau belle now grew serious under the admoni- 

170 



The Roof of The World . 


tion of his senior. The rope was tied securely 
and the lad wiggled his way into the chimney. 

The man who goes ahead on the Alpine climb 
is the one to whom chief credit should attach. 
To him comes the duty of clambering and scram¬ 
bling up the bare rock. He cannot cling to a 
dangling rope from above. He is the pioneer 
whose assistance lies in his own human arms and 
legs. There are no extraneous safeguards. If 
he slips? The mind would rather not think of it. 
There is no human grace in the comrades below 
to save from fatal fall. 

Andre Dore had already mounted several 
yards up the chimney. Jean and Gray and 
Powers stood on a rocky ledge watching the 
climber. Not a word was said from above or be¬ 
low. The older guide ceased smoking his pipe 
and looked stolidly on. 

For a climb of fifty feet the agile young 
Frenchman mounted in a series of rushes like a 
fly on a perpendicular wall. Now he halted to 
set foot on a ledge. He seemed to be pausing 
for strength. Again his body hugged close to 
the rocks. It writhed in and out of the crack. 
Gray from below could see the tendons of his 
broad neck stand out like whip cords. The 
sound of heavy breathing came down the chim¬ 
ney. Although Andre’s face was bent ever up- 
171 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


ward it seemed to Gray he could see the swollen, 
blood flushed cheeks and the protruding eyes. 
There followed one mighty physical lunge and 
Andre disappeared as if swallowed up. 

The rope halted for two, three, five minutes. 
Those below knew a great battle was being 
fought with the mountain. Gray searched Jean’s 
face to know if the young athlete had won. But 
the rope did not move for endless minutes. The 
artist felt he could not endure the agonies of im¬ 
patience. As yet there was nothing in the face 
of Jean Pierrot to encourage. At last the rope 
dangling in the chimney wiggled vigorously. 
Jean turned a face of smiles to his American 
trust. 

“You know the—ah!—the law of the moun¬ 
tain climb?” he asked in stumbling English. 
“It is never to look down. Never to look down 
into the abyss. It is always to look up. Up at 
the sky. See, Monsieur? You will come here 
while I make fast the rope. We tie it like this. 
See? Andre, he will help. Bonne chancer 

The next instant Raymond Gray was wig¬ 
gling and screwing his ascent of the famous 
Mummery Crack. He found that nature had 
provided a thousand little grips for hands and 
feet. A thousand little folds for the climber to 
insinuate his knees. A thousand curves like af- 
172 



The Roof of The World . 


fectionate elbows of an arm to protect his slip¬ 
ping body. He found no time to meditate. It 
was climb, climb, climb. He felt the rope mov¬ 
ing above him keeping taut. At last he reached 
the place where Andre had halted. He could see 
the reason for the halt now. An abutment of 
rock leered in his face. It seemed to defy all 
passage. But the rope from above wiggled 
gently urging him on. 

Gray paused for a moment of breath. He re¬ 
called Jean below and—he had almost looked 
down. He thought of—no! He would not! 
Then he swung into action again. He came to 
grips with the rock above. He left the sure foot¬ 
hold below. And then! Was he slipping? The 
ledge above seemed to laugh at him. It was piti¬ 
less. He swore and dug hands and feet into 
merciless rocks. The rope held taut and he felt 
himself dangling. He cursed Andre above for 
not pulling him up bodily. It seemed ages of 
struggle. And then. Thank God! And thank 
Andre! He was over the ledge and lay panting 
on the shelf. 

Gray crept back from the edge of the balcony 
for it had no rail. He met the laughing face of 
Andre that seemed more boyish than ever. The 
American could have embraced the young 
Frenchman out of pure gratitude. Instead he 
173 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


stretched out on the rock and panted. The rope 
was untied from his body and uncoiled down the 
chimney again. To Powers and the older guide 
fell the task of bringing up the packs and Alpen¬ 
stocks. 

As Gray lay on the rocks watching Andre 
throw out the rope into the depths below he fear¬ 
fully realized what he had accomplished. 

He also knew it is only when the climber is at 
rest that he is subject to joy or fear. In the up¬ 
ward climb, with eyes bent heavenward, with the 
flood of bodily energies turned into action—it is 
then that the mortal self is forgotten. A glance 
down into the distances toward Montanvert made 
him tremble. It was unthinkable that he had 
scaled the precipice. It was simply unclimable. 
He was flooded with sheer fear. But it was tardy 
fear. And then a gush of joy put fears to route. 
It was the joy of losing his life and finding it. 
In a few moments more four madmen gathered 
at the top of the Mummery Crack. They were 
battered and wounded and bleeding. And 
abounding in laughter. 

“You know what it is we say in French!” 
laughed Andre. “Impossible n'est pas un mot 
francais! Ah! If the beau belle could see me up 
the Mummery Crack first today! Eh? Jean, 
what would Marie say to that?” 

174 



The Roof of The World . 


“No! No! Andre!” remonstrated the older 
guide to the blushing boy. “You must not 
Marie, Marie, Marie everything today. The 
belle is not for the climb. You must forget. We 
get back tonight. Then all right Marie!” 

“Isn’t it time to eat?” asked Powers observing 
Jean Pierrot fumble at the pack. “I’m hungry 
as a Rocky Mountain bear. Or one of these 
French goats. I could eat tin cans. But how 
about that chocolate and bread?” 

“Ah! Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu!” shouted Jean 
aghast. He pointed dumbly to one of the two 
precious bottles of wine in the pack. It had 
broken in the climb up the crack. Jean was 
wringing his hands like a child. 

“It’s all right, Jean!” laughed Powers. “Don’t 
cry over spilt wine. Remember the law of the 
climbers! Always look up! Ha! Ha! The bread 
has soaked it up anyhow. We’ll have bread and 
wine. It is the sacrament. Eh? Aide-toi! A V 
Americaine” 

The sun was now blazing down upon moun¬ 
tain and valley as the four sat down for brief 
rest and munched a simple fare of chocolate and 
bread. Of the wine they were economical, for 
it must last. They occupied a tiny platform be¬ 
tween two precipices. One precipice dropped 
to the Mer de Glace. It seemed thousands of 
175 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


feet below. The other rose sheer over their 
heads assailing heaven like a new tower of Babel. 
Gray gazed meditatively into the vasty depths 
piled beneath their feet. 

“I used to wonder,” said Powers, turning to 
Andre “when I was a boy how it felt to the 
trapeze-performer in the circus. It seemed an 
awful height then. But not quite so far as this. 
Eh?” 

“Ha!” laughed Andre. “The circus? I do 
not know. The circus, it never comes to Chamo¬ 
nix. But the Grepon, it is fun. Eh? The guide¬ 
book for the tourists say the Mummery Crack 
is the hardest part of the climb. We shall see. 
A la finr 

There was a dauntless flash in Andre’s eye 
that filled Gray with apprehension. 

“Climbs worse than the one we have just gone 
through?” inquired Powers. “Really? The 
climb up this chimney is harder than anything 
I’ve tried in America. You can’t mean to say 
there are worse spots than the Mummery Crack? 
For God’s sake! Andre!” 

“It is not the worse spots,” replied Andre with 
shrug of shoulders. “It is the better spots. That 
is the way we climbers say. The climbers who 
love to climb. Ah! Monsieur Powers. We shall 
climb like the plants that run up the wall. Eh? 

176 



The Roof of The World . 

They make fast the roots in the tiny clefts. Al¬ 
ways they climb to reach the light. They climb 
round the edge. They hold to the rocks. They 
swing in the empty spaces. They climb to the 
heavens! See! That’s the way the flowers and 
the plants climb. So do we. Eh? What you 
think?” 

“You’re a fine little poet, Andre!” replied 
the other youth. 

“Ah, well!” sighed Andre. “I guess it is the 
love makes me so. Eh? Jean, he says so. I tell 
it all to Marie. You have a Marie to tell it to? 
Eh? Monsieur Powers? You have a belle to say 
it to? The lady you save from the man in the 
village last night? Ah, it was grand! You are 
the American! It is so we think of the Ameri¬ 
cans. And when you come down to Chamonix 
tonight you can tell it to your Marie. How you 
climb like the flowers on the mountain. You tell 
it to your Marie. I tell it to my Marie! Ah — !” 

“It is the time to go!” grumbled Jean rising 
and knocking the ashes from his pipe. “Marie, 
Marie. You must forget it. While we climb 
the mountain! Allez-vous-enr 


177 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


Chapter X 

“IMPOSSIBLE N EST PAS UN MOT 
FRANCAIS.” 

N OT another word was said. Search was be¬ 
gun for a new opening in the mountain 
wall. The face above was sheer and of¬ 
fered no invitation whatever. To inexperienced 
eyes the difficulties appeared insurmountable. 
For half an hour the guides themselves were 
baffled. Andre disappeared around a ledge that 
seemingly no human could surmount. It must 
have required him a quarter hour to make the 
turn of a single block of rock. The conquest of 
a few coveted yards demanded the strength of 
giants. 

At last the face of the youthful Andre ap¬ 
peared from a cranny twenty five feet above. 
His cheeks had not their usual smile and looked 
solemnly down to the balcony below. Gray half 
wished that no way upward could be found. 
Would that some strange twist of Nature had 
changed the face of the Grepon since the last 
climbers had gone up. Then he dismissed the 
178 



“Impossible N J est Pas Un Mot Francois ” 


cowardly thought. The rope was thrown down 
from Andre. It was tied in the middle about 
the body of Powers, then about Gray, at the end 
about Jean Pierrot. 

Gray now realized the meaning of brother¬ 
hood. Brotherhood as he had never known it 
before. Four men tied together for life or 
death. The fate of one to be the fate of all. He 
looked at Gaylord, then at Andre Dore, and then 
across at Jean Pierrot. Their eyes met in se¬ 
cret understanding. 

Now Gaylord Powers swung out to accom¬ 
plish the turns already made by Andre. Gray 
followed. What must it have meant to climb 
out here alone? The artist inserted his toes in¬ 
to every wrinkle that offered. Often he held 
to holds that seemed insufficient for even the 
tips of his fingers. Situations beyond the pos¬ 
sible were overcome. His body hugged the rock 
to avoid the abyss. He hardly breathed. Crafti¬ 
ly he made his way. Another moment and he 
stood beside Gaylord and Andre, on the top of 
the ledge. It was impossible to believe! It could 
never have been done. 

“Impossible nest pas un mot francais!” mut¬ 
tered Andre to himself. This time his voice was 
not so much smile as grim threat. 

As Gray leaned over the ledge to watch Jean 
179 




The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


Pierrot make the same ascent he drew back with 
involuntary horror. It was a fascinating sight 
and yet a nightmare. To see a fellow human 
being cling to the slippery rock by friction of 
hands and breath. To watch him creep up 
treacherous slabs that resembled a toboggan- 
chute into wild space. To strain every muscle 
with him in fellow feeling as he traversed myster¬ 
ious spires. To eat his danger and drink his 
jeopardy. To climb with him the perpendicular 
walls, to feel with him the grasp of sympathy 
on invisible holds. Each time Jean’s distorted, 
wrenched face was larger and closer. Now he 
was pulled up by eager hands and stood in agony 
of panting on the narrow shelf. 

“Thank God!” cried Powers. “Heaven help 
me if that wasn’t a miracle! Raymond! Andre! 
Jean! You are men that are men!” 

“You think I am a man?” laughed the rose 
cheeked boy of twenty. “Ha! I will tell it to 
Marie. Look! Look! Monsieur Powers! It is 
the Mount Blanc!” 

The great summit lifted its head not far away. 
The gaps and buttresses between were infantile 
to the sight in such lofty altitudes. Gray felt 
the surge of conquest and his whole body vibrated 
under it. He was standing on the embattlements 
of a fortress. That surge of joy paid for all 
180 



“Impossible Nfest Pas Un Mot Francois” 


the anguish of the climb. He stepped quietly 
to the ledge and placed his foot upon it. He 
felt no emotion of fear as he gazed calmly at the 
leap a body might take to the glacier below. He 
gazed far down into the bed of green in the val¬ 
ley. He saw where the spires of Chamonix 
lifted and where Madame Madorie must this 
moment be. He turned to see Jean Pierrot 
watching him. 

“The law of the mountain climb!” reminded 
the older guide shaking his head wisely. “It is 
to look up. A la francaise!” 

The next hour and a half of climb was not so 
perilous. It was hard upward work but it gave 
Gray a chance to regain mental balance. 

“We are come now,” said Jean, “to the hard 
part. Give me the eau de viel Andre! It is I 
to go ahead!” 

They paused and drank the last of the wine. 
Andre hurled the bottle far out into space and 
listened to the silence swallow it up. He remon¬ 
strated with Jean in French for a moment dur¬ 
ing which there was frequent mention of Marie. 
At last Andre seemed to have gained his point, 
which was to lead the entire climb. His face lit 
up with the old smile. 

The next half hour was the most perilous Gray 
could have conceived. But on they went. They 

181 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


were nearing the summit now and the goal ahead 
gave them redoubled energy and daring. A 
strong wind was blowing but it did the service of 
blowing them against the embrace of the moun¬ 
tain. It was a kindly wind and they thanked 
the skies for it. 

Suddenly they arrived at a point where all 
human progress seemed beyond the possible. In 
front and behind they were hemmed in by per¬ 
pendicular cliffs. Once Andre disappeared on 
exporing quest and the impatient comrades had 
a wait of half an hour. Jean paced up and down 
the terrace like a sulky lion in a cage. Then 
came an order to proceed from a hidden voice. 
Minutes followed that seemed hours. Up and 
down the face of the cliff they moved. The 
wind was unreliable and veered violently. Again 
and again Gray damned the memory of his own 
words and those of Violent Gentry about being 
blown like a leaf into space. The four clustered 
again for conference. 

The voices of the guides became gloomy. 
They had been exasperated for an hour by un¬ 
accustomed difficulties. They talked much in 
French and so low Gray and Powers could 
gather hut little of their meaning. A crack 
opened here and there. Andre would crawl up 
the strange passages only to return and shake his 
head. 


182 



“Impossible N*est Pas Un Mot Francois” 


At the end of an hour of this futile experiment 
the exasperation of Andre suddenly gave place 
to a new look of faith. He conversed in low 
tones with Jean and uncoiled the rope. He 
threw it out at an angle. In a few minutes more 
he peered up from a tiny ledge twenty feet be¬ 
low. They were making descent for a detour! 
Ten minutes more that seemed ten years! Then 
they huddled arm in arm on the ledge below. 
There they stood like saints in marble niches of a 
cathedral miles above the place of security. 

“It is impossible to return that way,” cried 
Andre pulling the rope down after Jean. “The 
door, it is closed! We cannot go back.” 

“Ah! Andre!” answered Powers. “You 
know. Impossible n y est pas un mot francais!” 

Andre shook his head dubiously. Gaylord 
Powers himself knew that he was talking to 
awaken faith, not to express it. No opening 
appeared now below or above. Were they 
caught here in this cruel isolation? The wind 
off ered no consolation. The sun seemed to laugh 
at their helplessness. Was nature offering just 
a mirage of pardon? Only to play her cruel 
game with the victims again? What a horrible 
dungeon was this! What were the feelings of 
the prisoner of Chillon or the hopeless in the 
Bastile to this! The Montanvert could be seen 
183 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


faintly down in the Valley. It lay far away as 
Mars, mockingly far away. 

Then a glad cry sprang from Andre’s lips. 

“Mon Dieu! I see the escape!” he cried ex¬ 
citedly. 

The daring youth balanced his feet on the nar¬ 
row ledge. He grasped a knob of stone with his 
left hand and uncoiled the rope with his right. 
The noose settled over a projecting neck. Be¬ 
fore anyone could say him nay he swung out over 
the chasm and landed on a new foothold and the 
others followed. 

“Ah! Marie will say it is fine!” he cried exult- 
ingly. “It is the coup de maitre! Now we are 
all right, it is, Monsieur Powers! From here to 
the top, it is not so hard. I know the way now!” 

The look of relief on Jean Pierrot’s face was 
worth worlds to Raymond Gray. Now he for¬ 
got all fears and bruises and gazed toward the 
summit. Ahead reared the top of the Grepon! 

In another half hour the four supermen were 
on the roof of the world. The surrounding 
peaks stood out like needles. 

Although the mind knew they were below the 
majestic dome of Mount Blanc the eye claimed 
equality of altitude. All was shrouded in mys¬ 
tery. The summits were crowned with halos of 
mist. 


184 



"Impossible N J est Pas Un Mot Francois ” 


The artist felt transported with delight. And 
yet there was no shout of joy. His feelings were 
beyond all expression. He stood and just looked 
and looked. His clothes were torn. His hands 
were bleeding. His shins ached. His throat 
was parched with thirst. But joy was upper¬ 
most. 

The four silent worshippers went through 
solemn rites of depositing their cards. Then 
they chewed at ice crystals to quench their thirst. 
The ice tasted burning and unsatisfying. Then 
Gaylord Powers passed round a precious fag of 
smoke. Under the mask of tranquility he sank 
back and closed his eyes to a vision of peace. It 
was the top of the world! 

“Ah! Raymond! Andre! Jean!” he mur¬ 
mured. “This is the way I want to die!” 

“I wish it, that Marie could be here now,” ans¬ 
wered Andre. 

“I told her I could do it. She will give me the 
talk of Marie. On the mountain climb. Eh? 
Jean?” 

“Say, Andre, my boy!” cried Gaylord Powers, 
waxing confidential under tobacco smoke. “You 
extra kiss for this. Jean, he does not like me to 
see this knapsack? I meant to tell you before. 
I wrote two letters last night and put them there. 
One is for my sister—if anything should hap- 
185 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


pen to me. See? And the other. You remem¬ 
ber the little girl in the Village last night? The 
one that thanked us for the help? It is for her. 
You know Madame Madorie? Jane is the com¬ 
panion-maid for Madame Madorie.” 

“Ah, Madame Madorie!” cried Andre. “She 
is the charming woman! She is the charmante! 
Ah! For three years my Marie, she work for 
Madame Madorie. She wash the clothes, oh, 
beautiful clothes, for Madame Madorie. And 
Madame Madorie, she is so good. And she help 
Marie when she is sick to die. Marie she get de 
mat en pis. But Madame Madorie come. Give 
medicine and sweet words. And Marie get well. 
Now, Marie, she would die for Madame Ma¬ 
dorie. Ah! les beaux yeuxl” 

Jean was making ready for the descent. 

“To go down, it is so hard,” said the older 
guide. “Harder or to come up. Oui , oui! And 
the sun, it now goes down. We must go!” 

“Gods! I would give Napoleons for something 
to drink,” cried Powers clutching his parched 
throat. He took an ice crystal and held it up to 
Andre in laughing imitation of a cup. “A votre 
sante!” 

“A votre santeT laughed Andre rising and 
kicking his heels. 

“One more look and we descend,” said Powers. 

186 



“Impossible N J est Pas Un Mot Francois” 


“Look, Raymond, at Charmoz! Remember the 
Nile near Thebes? Isn’t Charmoz the Sphinx?” 

The huge mass of Charmoz stood gazing with 
impassive eyes into the infinite beyond. It 
lifted from the edge of an ice desert, a ruined 
Temple of Rameses a thousand times exagger¬ 
ated. Great projections threatening to fall, ped¬ 
estals and broken obelisks reminded of strange 
Egyptian monsters and divinities. The highest 
peaks were like castles, sparkling with lances 
and the glare of battle. One could hear the 
shock of arms, the blare of trumpets, the shouts 
of combatants among the giant sentinels of the 
sky. 

“Doesn’t that make your blood flow, Ray¬ 
mond?” enthused Powers. 

“It gives one an awful feeling of isolation. 
But think of the poor devils in the cities. Think 
of rattling jargon of pushcarts after this silence. 
And look at those purple shadows on the snow! 
Raymond, I see a new look on your face!” 

Raymond Gray opened his lips to speak, and 
then fell back into silence. Tears glistened un¬ 
ashamed in his eyes. Powers pretended not to 
notice and engaged himself with his camera, 
turning it on Charmoz and Blanc. 

If the incredulous cannot believe the eyes that 
have seen there is another eye to trust. If the 
187 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


account of private feelings is to be discounted 
there is another witness. There is an eye that 
gazes calmly and stoically and with mathematical 
precision. It is an eye that is never wet with 
tears, an eye that never blinks sarcasm or dis¬ 
dain. An eye free from emotions of fears or 
joy, remorse or bias, an eye stronger than that 
of mortal. The camera is a mechanical toy, but 
is able to see. In the dark room it reveals the 
overhanging towers and slender and fantastic 
needles and spurs, the abysses and aerial perches, 
the depths and altitudes. It is a dumb and in¬ 
corruptible witness. Powers took a dozen snaps 
and then closed the precious instrument. 

They had started the climb of Grepon at three 
o’clock in the morning. It was now high noon 
and the sun was beginning its descent of the 
sky. Were they to get back to the Montanvert 
before eight o’clock in the evening they must 
hurry. The descent, Jean promised, was more 
difficult than the ascent and they soon found it 
so. > 

New fears and thrills of joy dashed through 
their arteries as up and down a race course. The 
tyros at Alpine climbing found how many a time 
a frail rope was the only hope of security. How 
often they had to violate Jean’s warning and 
gaze down into yawning, frightful gulfs of 
188 



“Impossible N'est Pas Un Mot Francais 


space below. The invisible giant of gravitation 
grasped a thousand times to swallow them in its 
great maw. At countless places in the descent 
all seemed hopeless. But ever and always the in¬ 
stinct of the guides was good, and they were 
to be trusted to the utmost. Occasionally an 
iron hook would be found embedded in the face 
of the wall. Some guide had fixed it in days 
past. For these hands of human help they 
breathed prayers of gratitude to the Unknown. 

The sun had dropped behind distant peaks in 
the West when Andre announced they had ar¬ 
rived at the last difficult spot. It promised to be 
the worst of all the nerve-killing day. 

They stood at the edge of a high wall that 
dropped off into precipitous space. The ver¬ 
tical pitch must have fallen hundreds of feet. 

* “It was to get here Jean was anxious,” said 
Andre. “We could not descend this in the night. 
It will be black in an hour. If we get late here 
we would have to stay all the night. Eh, Jean? 
It was here that all the old climbers used to fail. 
But we have it, the good path down the side. And 
impossible riest pas un mot francais!” 

Andre threw out the life line over the abyss 
and prepared to descend. It was all the rope 
they possessed. The reserve rope had been lost. 
Ten minutes after Andre disappeared over the 
ledge the signal came for the next. 

189 




The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


Gray swung downward. Suddenly he seemed 
flying through the air. He possessed no idea of 
where he should land. He trusted the youthful 
Andre for that. Now he found himself clinging 
or trying to cling to the convex rock. His feet 
seldom touched the tiny ledge. He would 
grope desperately for non-existent holds on the 
wall. Again he would put bare cheek to the 
hard rock in an effort to increase the area of con¬ 
tact between his body and the mountain. , 

The next moment Raymond Gray gave a 
sharp cry. His foot had caught in the rock and 
was given a violent twist. An agony of pain 
shot through the member and the artist knew that 
further use of his limb was out of the question. 

A sudden, wild panic seized his soul. His 
hands were bleeding and weary. Now he was 
swinging to and fro groping wildly for foothold. 

He found himself cursing his friends again. 
It seemed he could hold on not another second. 
He was choked and suffocating. 

Everything in his life seemed to flash before 
his eyes. He saw the terrible vision of death. 
A body was bouncing like a rubber ball over the 
snows to infinite depths. A voice within cried, I 
am afraid! Then a rough voice sounded courage 
in his ear. 

“Here! Here! Mon Lieu! Quick! Monsieur 
Gray! Quick!” ^ 


190 



“Impossible N’est Pas Un Mot Francais” 


It was the voice of Andre. Gray looked up 
at his own hands. They were bloody. It an¬ 
gered like a red flag to a bull. The carmine color 
gave him a wild desire for life. The rope swung 
once more and two strong hands hauled him in 
like a bag of salt. A few minutes more and 
Powers stood at their side. 

“Ah! The physical strength!” comforted 
Andre. “It was great in the morning. Not so 
much now. Eh ? It is all right. This is the last 
place. Now it is not so hard to the Montanvert. 
But Jean! The one who comes last he have hard 
time. Pray to God that Jean be all right!” 

Gray sat nursing a sprained ankle and listened 
to loosened stones roll past the shelf. They were 
the heralds of Jean’s descent. From the look 
on Andre’s face it must have been perilous. A 
long wait and more rolling stones. Then the 
sinuous body of Jean hugging the rock and rope 
—and safety. The conquest of the Grepon was 
won! They had achieved the most difficult climb 
in the Alps! A glad cry broke from Andre. 

“Rira bien qui rira le dernier!” shouted the 
youth in glee. 

“Pardonnez-moi Monsieur Powers! When it 
is I am overcome of joy I cannot find the Eng¬ 
lish. It is I mean to laugh at the end. Ha! It 
is over now! I will tell it to Marie tomorrow!” 

191 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


Powers smiled indulgently at Andre and Jean 
moved to descend. 

Gray rose to his feet only to fall back with 
another groan. 

“The ankle’s twisted,” he said simply. “I’m 
afraid I’ll be a hinderance to the party.” 

Powers quickly removed the heavy shoe and 
chafed the already swollen member. He was ut¬ 
tering words of comfort like a woman when he 
looked up to find Gray fainted away. 

“The day’s been too much for him, dear fel¬ 
low!” murmured Gaylord softly, applying snow 
to his face. “Andre, a lift!” 

The two men carried the limp body of Gray 
down the mountain side to a pool of water that 
had melted during the day. A moment later 
Gray recovered and the ankle was bathed and 
tenderly bandaged. 

The darkness already came up to the guide’s 
prediction. It was velvet black below except for 
the faint glow of the ice on the glacier and the 
distant twinkle of lights at the Montanvert. 
Slowly they picked their way down the rock in¬ 
cline to the moraines below. Powers and Andre 
alternating at carrying Gray. A pleasant tor¬ 
por of drowsiness seized the artist and he could 
understand how weary Alpine climbers could lie 
down in the cold snows and sleep to a pleasant 
death. 


192 



“Impossible N^est Pas Un Mot Francois ” 


It was after eight o’clock when they stumbled 
into the dining room of the Montanvert. The 
smiling landlord brought them wine in person. 
Gray sank like lead into a big chair before the 
fire. The lamplight and its reflection on the 
larchwood hurt his vision. He was utterly 
fatigued. His eyes were bloodshot from the long 
exposure to snow and sun. As he lifted a glass 
to his companions his face became ecstatic. 

“A votre sante” he cried. “The day has been 
well spent. Gaylord ! Andre! Jean!” 

“The toast!” answered Andre. “It is to the 
beaux yeux! To Marie! To my Marie. To your 
Marie. To—some day Jean, he have a Marie! 
To the Marie of Monsieur Gray!” 

They laughed and drank and then Gray’s foot 
was tended. A warm dinner was placed before 
them and disappeared under a ravenous on¬ 
slaught. Powers ordered a limousine from 
Chamonix and an hour later it was announced. 

“Come Raymond, let us go!” he cried getting 
to his feet. He reached into his pocket and paid 
the keeper of the Montanvert. A big roll of bills 
was tossed to Jean. 

“It is too much!” remonstrated Jean. “We 
cannot —” 

“Ah!” rejoined Powers. “Uargent est un bon 
passe partout! Take it! And my love, brave 
men!” 


19a 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


Then he lifted Gray with a laugh and de¬ 
posited him like a child in the car. 

As the luxurious limousine wound its way 
down rough roads from the Montanvert to 
Chamonix the artist fell off into a dream. He 
dreamed of a frail plant with white flowers run¬ 
ning up the excrescences of a rough wall. Its 
roots were struck in the clefts. It climbed around 
cornices and clutched the protuberances and 
swung playfully over empty spaces. It was 
reaching for heaven and the light. It seemed 
to him the big lily-flower was about to fall. Then 
a beautiful girl—a vision of beatitude—reached 
out gentle hand and caught the falling petals 
—and— 

“Raymond!” It was the voice of Gaylord and 
a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Raymond! This 
is your studio! Careful of the foot!” 

Raymond Gray rubbed his inflamed eyes. He 
tried to reconstruct the confused events that 
brought him here. He heard the laughter of his 
friend and saw the lights. The unwonted sights 
and sounds jarred him. Was it real? Or a 
mirage? Or a spirit seance in supernatural ex¬ 
periments? 

“Where is Madame Madorie?” demanded Gray 
still in a daze. 

“This moment I heard her voice in my ear and 
saw her picking lilies.” 



A Midnight Voice 


Chapter XI. 

A MIDNIGHT VOICE, 
gala ball swung full progress as Raymond 



Gray several evenings later, entered the 


foyer of the Villa Beau Sejour. Soft 
strains of a waltz floated from the dance. The 
artist moved to the desk and instructed his name 
sent to the room of Monsieur Coret. As he 
stood impatiently tapping his fingers a hand 
was laid on his arm. 

“Ah, Violet!” he cried. “You startle me! Just 
sent my name up to Coret. My dear! What a 
gown you flourish this evening! You have out- 
Frenched the French.” 

“You try to make up with compliments, Ray¬ 
mond,” she pouted, “for lack of attentions. You 
are preoccupied these days. Do you forget you 
promised me much of yourself? How do you 
imagine I get along on the mere shucks of your 
time? My heart is hungry and famished, dear. 
Try to be a little more generous, wont you, 
please?” 

“Don’t grow impatient with me, Violet,” he 


195 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


pleaded. “Coret is here for only a few days, 
till the Art display is done. He has a tremen¬ 
dous deal on. Some great works of South 
American Art are for sale and he is eager to 
clinch them. Tonight he has conference with 
Senor Madero and wants my presence. I would 
love to share the dance with you, but — ” 

“Monsieur Coret will see you sir,” broke in the 
garcon. 

“Said to come up immediately, sir.” 

“I fear others are crowding me out, dearest,” 
she lamented, releasing his arm. “Perhaps my 
claims on you grow irksome, but —- ” 

“There, there!” he reassured. “Careful! I see 
Mr. Gentry coming across the hall. I’ll return 
in a few moments, dear. It’s not far from mid¬ 
night and Coret is waiting.” 

The artist bounded up the flight, knocked at 
room number seven, and entered in response to 
the voice within. The room was smoked into a 
cloud of blue. A great table littered with books 
stood in the center. Except for a shaded light 
illuminating a radius of ten feet the suite was in 
shadows and darkness. 

Henri Coret lounged at the table in velvet 
dressing gown. The heavy mould of his face, 
the thick lips and deep set eyes, the shock of gray 
hair, took on pronounced proportions under the 
196 



A Midnight Voice 


light. Opposite him was a slight man of swarthy 
complexion. 

“Senor Madero, Mr. Gray,” bowed Coret. 
“Senor Madero represents the firm of Nesto- 
Madero of Brazil. He introduces the new Art 
of South America at the Chamonix Exhibit. 
He is just expounding the marvels of his 
country which is larger than your United States. 
Proceed, Senor.” 

Gray and the foreigner exchanged bows. 

“Ah, yes!” continued the swarthy Spaniard 
with demonstrative and broken English. “I 
speak, is it not, of the selvas of the Amazon? 
About the Tocantins and the Araguya. You 
should hear of the mangroves and the guava of 
the catinga country. You would shiver to see 
the snakes and armadillos and jararaca that 
swarm the jungle. But for the artist, it is the 
birds! Not the vultures and caranchos. But the 
birds of Paradise, you call it. Birds of the gods, 
with plumage of red and green. Ah! Such red 
and green for the canvas!” 

Senor Madero assisted his sluggish English 
with temperamental gestures and frequent sips of 
wine. Coret moved a bottle and beaker toward 
Gray but the latter shook his head. 

“You are becoming Puritan, Mr. Gray,” 
laughed Coret. “Not a cigarette, neither? Now 
tell us of Rio de Janeiro, Senor Madero.” 

197 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


“Ah, Rio de Janeiro! A vuestra saludr 
dilated Madero, lifting his goblet to toast. “It is 
a wonderful city of a million and a half. Like 
your New York, Senor Gray, on the sea. Four 
fifths of the world’s coffee and half the world’s 
rubber pass through Rio do Janeiro. Kilos of 
tobacco, cotton, sugar, cattle. But it is the art 
of Rio de Janeiro you would hear. The beauti¬ 
ful gardens of Acclamacao, the spurs of the 
forest covered mountains that surround the city, 
they move the imagination to pictures. You 
shall see tomorrow at the Exhibit what South 
America cam do. You will do well to buy, Mon¬ 
sieur Coret. We say in Spanish, Recoge tu 
heno mientras que el sol luziere. What you say 
English? —make hay while the sun shines! It 
is yours to make a fortune, Monsieur Coret. To 
put the South American Art before the World!” 

The South American paused for more liquors 
and tobaccos of rare brands. 

“Senor Madero has a large collection of pic¬ 
tures for the Chamonix Exhibit,” explained 
Coret. “Particularly the works of a Senor Per- 
dor. Water colors of great tone and feeling. 
Marines and landscapes of most intense impres¬ 
sion and controlled color. Particularly he paints 
the opulence of flesh and anatomies with aes¬ 
thetic rationality. You can feel the dynamic with- 
198 



A Midnight Voice 


in. And he has stylistic design to translate Ti¬ 
tian or Botticelli into terms of Claude Monet or 
Cezanne. It’s our school of art, Gray. I want 
your eye to assist. Hold the option on those 
pictures open for me till tomorrow, Senor 
Madero. Remember our verbal contract. Good¬ 
night !” 

Once the South American had gone Coret 
turned excitedly to Gray. 

“Gray! There is one picture on display at to¬ 
morrow’s Exhibit we absolutely must have. 
Madero doesn’t realize its value. Nor do the 
other fools. It’s the largest picture in the ex¬ 
hibition, a study of a beautiful girl in dressing 
gown. Most marvelous suggestion of draperies 
slipping from shoulders, a remarkable face 
against a background of figured chintz. The 
room strewn with implements of feminine toi¬ 
lette. The subject is an adolescent mind startled 
by looking into the pools of future possibility. 
It’s a favorite theme of the new school. You shall 
see it tomorrow. It’s worth a quarter of a mil¬ 
lion ultimately. I — ” 

Henri Coret turned sharply at the soft chimes 
of the clock. Raymond Gray stared at him in 
sheer amazement. The man underwent a trans¬ 
formation like Hyde into Jekyl. His deepset 
orbs of vision dilated in utter fright and searched 
190 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


the shadows for an enemy. His hands clenched 
and his lower jaw hung open as though trying to 
scream. Perspiration beaded his forehead and 
his complexion was ghastly. The attitude of the 
man was appalling. 

“My God!” he cried. “I thought that was 
twelve o’clock. Only the quarter hour! Pardon 
me, Gray! Forgive the show of weakness. You 
must think me a fool or worse.” 

“Explain yourself, Coret,” demanded Gray, 
moving under the light and laying his hands on 
Coret’s shoulder. “What has happened to set 
you off like this? As I live, you are trembling 
like quicksilver. Come! Come! What is it?” 

Coret subsided into ill-balanced composure. 

“Do you see these books, Raymond?” he waved 
to the litter on the table. “Spiritualism. I’ve 
needed them of late. These are the writings of 
the Fox sisters. This is Sir Oliver Lodge’s 
Raymond . Here is something on hypnotism. 
Mesmerism and animal magnetism, of Mesmer. 
Look especially at this essay of the trance me¬ 
dium, Davis. Don’t look at me as though I were 
a fool.” 

His trembling hand reached for a pamphlet 
called “Light” and pointed to a row of volumes 
of the Society for Psychic Research. 

“Coret!” advised Gray soberly. “Are you too 

200 



A Midnight Voice 


indulging this tomfoolery that sweeps the world 
about spirits? It’s rot! Spiritualistic seances! It’s 
folly man, and I warn you no good can come of 
it.” 

“Now listen, Gray! You don’t understand!” 
he broke in. 

“Here is something from Conan Doyle. Or 
consider this evidence from Karl du Prel. And 
the Russian Aksakoff. Or — ” 

“Coret,” answered Gray solemnly. “The last 
few years have taught me a deal about minding 
my own blank business. And I’ve tried to ob¬ 
serve the limits of friendship with you. I’ve 
seen only a small part of your life. But in Paris 
yours is a name to conjure with. The strangest 
stories are bruited about you. Some say you 
suffer obsessions and hallucinations. I hope 
what they say is not true, but — ” 

“Sit down!” commanded Coret. “Every man 
needs a confessional to unburden his sins. For¬ 
give me if I use your friendship tonight. But 
Gray! I have a revelation to make. A revela¬ 
tion that will curdle your blood. You say you 
have heard rumors of my past? Let the past be 
as it may. Did you see the look in my eye a 
moment ago, man? Did you feel the shiver of 
my soul? God help me, Gray! I’m trying to 
shake loose. But it’s the past looming up to 
201 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


damn the present and blaspheme the future. 
Yes, I suffer from mental peculiarities. Obses¬ 
sions, melancholia, hallucinations, and all that 
swampy brood. And why shouldn’t I? Gray, 
let me tell you something. In the last five years 
a curse has rested on me. Every noon at twelve 
o’clock, every night at twelve o’clock, for five 
years, for sixteen hundred days and nights of 
hell, I’ve been cursed. Cursed! It always threat¬ 
ens me at noon and at midnight. It’s hell. I’ve 
shivered in terror at some damnable sword of 
Damocles that may drop at any second. No! 
Don’t ask me more about it. You cannot help. 
None can help. Not even God. There may be 
some spirit from another world can help. So I 
try the mystics and the spiritualists.” 

Gray sat looking at the dishevelled figure 
helplessly, pathetically and reached out a sym¬ 
pathetic hand. 

“Do you know, Gray,” continued Coret. “I’ve 
thought of going to this woman, Madame Ma- 
dorie. She’s talked of a deal in Paris. Doctor 
of Fragrance, is it, she calls herself? The tourists 
are mystified. If the woman has any purchase 
on the future I want to see her. You must know 
her, Gray. Had her to your party. I don’t care 
about your private relations to her. But what 
of her methods? Amother charlatan of —?” 

202 



A Midnight Voice 


“Yes, I know her, Corel,” answered the artist. 
“But I doubt if she could assist. The woman 
claims to hold a queer secret of reading character. 
Has you breathe in perfumes, sensual and chaste, 
and reads from the reaction your character. I 
believe the woman is clever, if you merely want 
character read. But most of us know character 
too well now. As for a reading of future events! 
You know as well as I, Coret, that b-o-s-h spells 
bosh. No mortal can unveil the fissures of the 
future.” 

The chimes in the shadowed corner slowly and 
ponderously began to count out the hour of mid¬ 
night. The look on Coret’s face held Gray’s 
words suspended on open lips. Coret’s eyes di¬ 
lated as before and then became set like a dead 
man’s. The beaded perspiration stood out again 
on his ghostly features and his huge frame 
trembled hysterically. The clock accomplished 
its twelve strokes and Coret sat rigid as a Sphinx. 

Then with a harsh ring that jerked him erect 
from his chair the telephone on his desk sounded. 
The white features leaped into livid and living 
response and the trembling hand grappled the 
instrument. He lifted the receiver, only in sheer 
fright to set it back. 

“My God!” he cried. “It’s that uncanny 
voice! That voice! The voice that damns me at 
midnight!” 


208 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


His tone was a wrenched sob of despair. The 
bell rang sharply again. Coret answered it now 
and Gray leaned close to listen. The voice from 
its depth might have been masculine. It might 
have been feminine. The syllables were spoken 
in ghost-like monotone with heavy pauses. 

“You—are—Henri—Coret?” 

“Yes! Yes! Go on! What is it?” he cried in 
metallic tone. 

“I — warn — you. Do — not — buy— South 

— American — pictures! They — will — mean 

— your — death. Obey!” 

The monotone voice said no more. The mad¬ 
dest violence to the receiver got no response. 
Coret spent futile minutes with the operator try¬ 
ing to ascertain the source of the call. The tracer 
sent out was unavailing and the spent frame fell 
back into the chair. 

“Am I mad, Gray? Are my senses liars? Tell 
me! You heard! Was that a voice from another 
world? A dozen times that phantom voice has 
come to me at midnight in Paris. Once in Lon¬ 
don. Twice in Rome. Now here in Chamonix. 
It unnerves me for days. Am I deceived, Gray? 
Did you hear?” 

“Yes,” answered the artist under mask of tran¬ 
quility. “I heard.” 

“It’s an uncanny voice,” continued Coret, his 
204 



A Midnight Voice 


face still the image of death. “Sometimes I 
think it a man. Oftener a woman. There is 
some quality of it I recognize. More of it I do 
not. But it spells a fatal blight to my soul, Gray, 
pity me! I’m yellow. I’m a coward. I’ll do 
whatever that voice commands. I’ve sold out 
my soul to fear, God help me!” 

“The voice commands you to have none of the 
South American Art?” asked Gray. “Why 
this?” 

“Its warning I can never understand,” an¬ 
swered Coret. “They show neither rhyme nor 
reason. Ashamed, I confess myself a slave of 
fear. The voice is from hell or heaven. I must 
see Madero yet tonight. Gray, he’s at the ball 
below in the Villa Beau Sejour. Will you search 
him out? Tell him it is imperative. My nerves 
are nigh shattered. Hurry!” 

Descending the stairs the artist ran into Vio- 
et Gentry. 

“Thank Heaven you come!” she said. “I’ve 
waited hours, it seems. The rest of the family 
have retired and we can be alone. Come, I have 
a comer.” 

“Very sorry, Violet. Coret is not well and I 
must take Madero up for another conference. 
You’ll have to excuse me again, dear.” 

“You are not frantically complimentary to 
205 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


me tonight,” she flashed hotly “You treat me 
like a child! You jilt me. Someone else has 
become king-pin with you and I one of the other 
nine. I know how to be proud a s well as humble. 
I thought you different from other men, but 

Violet Gentry turned on her heel and haughti¬ 
ly moved away. Mentally stunned Gray groped 
his way through the crowd of dancers to Senor 
Madero in the far corner. A few moments later 
the two entered the suite of Henri Coret. 

Coret bore the marks of a strong man under 
suffering. His face in an hour had become worn 
and aged. He lit a cigarette and moved the 
South American to a chair. Senor Madero re¬ 
moved white gloves, rubbed his hands expectant¬ 
ly, and squinted. 

“I have decided,” said Coret looking the Span¬ 
iard in the eye, “ I have decided to have nothing 
to do with the pictures.” 

The conduct of Madero was curious. He 
glared stupidly at Coret and fell back astounded. 

“You do not want the pictures? Do you joke, 
Senor Coret? Is it worthless, the word you give 
today? You promise the fifty thousand dollars 
for the ten pictures of Perdor? And the one you 
praise so much for ten thousand dollars. Senor, 
is it not dishonorable? I take them from the 
gallery just for you. Is it your honor, your 
word, worthless? Ah! Mon Lieu ! 33 

206 



A Midnight Voice 


The attitude of Coret was out-and-out you-be- 
damnedness. Madero’s protests brought a shrug 
of the shoulders. 

“Do not talk so loud Senor Madero,” warned 
Coret. “It is after midnight. For reasons quite 
my own I don’t wish the pictures. Our contract 
was merely verbal. Minds were made to be 
changed. So, that’s an end to the matter.” 

“Ah, you forget, Monsieur Coret!” persuaded 
Madero, with the warmth of his race. “You 
say that Perdor, he beat Claude Monet and 
Cezanne. He is the best of Impressionism. He 
is the greatest for your new school of Natural¬ 
ism. Should you not care to make a half million 
dollars? Oro y plato! Are they nothing? Be 
sure, Monsieur Coret, Europe will go crazy over 
this art. If you do not want, some other buyer 
do. Here are the contracts, if you still wish to 
sign. They will crown your head with gold. 
Yes?” 

Madero opened a pocket portfolio and spread 
papers on the table. For a full moment the two 
men sat watching one another like bird and 
snake. Then slowly Coret rose to his feet. 

“I don’t sign those damned contracts, Made¬ 
ro!” he cried. 

“Take them out of my sight!” 

He pounded the desk and swept the papers 
207 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


with impulsive gesture to the floor. The South 
American fell back aghast and then took to pick¬ 
ing up the scattered documents, showing fright 
as if dealing with a madman. He snapped shut 
his portfolio and returned it to his pocket. For 
another embarrassed pause he stood twitching 
his gloves. Moving' dumbly to the door he 
pointed finger at Coret to punctuate his anger. 

“You will regret this, Monsieur Coret! Be¬ 
tween the gentlemen such insults are not for¬ 
given.” 

He closed the door, leaving Coret standing 
dumbly in the center of the room. The nervous 
figure in dressing gown paced the carpet, fleck¬ 
ing ashes from his cigarette, and tossing his bushy 
hair. Then with impatient pass he turned to 
Gray. 

“Why don’t I banish these damned hallucina¬ 
tions? I’m sorry to have insulted this man. But 
I guess I’m not myself for the moment. For¬ 
give me, Gray. I feel infinitely weary of life 
tonight. Bear with me a little and Richard will 
be himself again. When this damned evil eye 
is gone.” 

“Sit down, Coret,” urged the artist. “No! 
Leave the cordials alone for tonight. What you 
need, man, is not materia medica. Not stimulants 
nor sedatives. But mental and spiritual brace. 

208 




A Midnight Voice 


Pull yourself together. Come! Is there any¬ 
thing a friend can do?” 

“Yes, Gray! Indulge me in my silence a little 
more. Some day, if you have eyes that can bear 
the sight, I’ll show you the past. For the present 
you can serve me. You say you know Madame 
Madorie. Will you learn if she can conduct a 
spiritualistic seance for me? Tomorrow night? 
In the studio on the slope? Gray! There is one 
thing I must know or lose my reason. And only 
some all-seeing spirit can reveal it.” 

“I’ll arrange it if possible,” answered Gray, 
rising. “You shall know in the morning. I 
must go. It approaches one o’clock. Coret, 
you must to bed and forget. Goodnight.” 

When Gray stepped forth into the Rue Na¬ 
tional he found the valley bathed in soft light. 
The moon sent down shafts like an electric 
searchlight in the stellar distances. A gentle 
wind sweeping in the direction of the Arve sighed 
through the branches and gave voices to the 
night. The valley was banked in by shadows 
from the peaks, the tiny stream shimmering be¬ 
tween like a sword unsheathed. As Gray hur¬ 
ried along he passed pairs of lovers secluded un¬ 
der the trees, conspiring to win their cases before 
the court of romance. 

Swinging his cane and walking rapidly the 
209 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


artist crossed the Arve, passed the Hotel Royal, 
and climbed the slope toward his studio. At a 
division of the path he turned to the left and 
made toward the cottage of Madame Madorie. 

The house among the trees was in darkness 
save for the gentle light of the night. The artist 
stopped in the shadows and stood watching it. 
The wierd events of the night, the strange con¬ 
duct of Madame Madorie, the veiled revelations 
of Coret, the soughing of the wind, and the fit¬ 
ful fingers of light, chased one another chaotical¬ 
ly through his brain. A perceptible movement 
among the shadows startled him and the next 
moment Gray confronted a woman in long cape. 

“Madame Madorie!” he whispered, peering 
into her face. 

“Sh!” she cautioned. “Not so loud.” 

“In God’s name, relieve my reason, woman!” 
he breathed. 

“What’s the meaning of this night? I recog¬ 
nized your voice on the phone to Coret. Why 
do you carry on such black art? What is Coret 
to you, or you to Coret?” 

“Sh! Dear man! Not so loud! Remember 
your vow to hold silence. If I spoke now you 
would not believe. I want events to speak for 
themselves. And Coret—he shall speak. If he 
do not the stones will cry out. I knew you would 
210 



A Midnight Voice 


pass tonight. So I waited. My soul, it needs 
assurance, Monsieur Gray. Give me the word 
of trust and high honor. You pledge by God 
the word of help and silence—till—till—things 
speak?” 

“Yes, yes! dear woman!” he comforted. 
“Count on me to the end. Coret asked me to 
have you conduct a spiritualistic seance for him 
tomorrow night. He has heard of your fame in 
Paris. What do you say?” 

“A spiritualistic seance? For Coret? Ah, 
Monsieur Gray. It is, I must catch breath. I 
know not. I cannot say. Tomorrow morning 
I shall say. I must think tonight. N J est ce 
pas?” 

Madame Madorie touched his arm gently and 
pushed him away. 

“You must go to your cottage. I to mine. It 
is late. Soon the morning breaks, and another 
day. Who knows what a day can bring. Bon 
ami! Away! And bon soir! When Monsieur 
Gray, he say the prayers tonight, will he pray to 
the great God for courage to the timid heart of 
a woman? It is bon soir!” 


211 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


Chapter XII. 

THE SEANCE 

O N the night of the spiritualistic seance Ray¬ 
mond Gray approached Coret’s studio on 
the hillside with doubtful heart. It was 
close to eleven o’clock and Coret had named the 
hour of twelve for the meeting. The moon stood 
high in the heavens and sent down long ac¬ 
cusing fingers of light through the trees. A 
soughing wind seeped through the branches 
and added to the artist’s creepy feelings. He 
found the cottage in darkness and Henri Coret 
sitting in a far corner of the room watching for 
his approach down the slope. At the other end 
of the studio the darkness was relieved by fitful 
flares from a hearth fire. Little shadows and 
oases of light chased one another playfully over 
the ceiling and out of doors. The moonbeams 
sifted down through the overhanging trees of 
the veranda and made ghost-like entry through 
the window. It was an atmosphere in which any¬ 
thing might happen. Gray entered with an un¬ 
shakable feeling of the ominous. 

“Hello, Coret!” said Gray, glad to hear his 
212 



The Seance 


own voice. “Anyone else here? No? This is 
creepy and wierd. Shall I turn on lights?” 

“No, please,” answered the heavy voice. 
“Come and sit down. Tell me how soon the rest 
of the party arrive. It seems an age I’ve 
waited.” 

“As I said this afternoon,” continued the ar¬ 
tist, “Madame Madorie claims to be ill. She 
sends this Monsieur Milbrand to hold the seance. 
A well known spiritualist of Paris that happens 
to be in the village. Madame Madorie recom¬ 
mends him highly. He says we should have a 
party of at least six. So, I’ve invited the Gen¬ 
trys and Gaylord Powers. They ought to be 
here soon.” 

“Presume you thought me a fool this after¬ 
noon, Gray,” brooded Coret. “When Madero 
offered that group of South American pictures 
for twenty-five thousand my hands were clutch¬ 
ing to take them in. But my damned hallucina¬ 
tions wouldn’t permit. So your friend, Dunbar 
Gentry, got them? It might be I could buy them 
later.” 

Now without a second of warning Henri Coret 
leaped to his feet. His teeth chattered as though 
he suffered nervous chill. With fierce clutching 
power he grasped the artist’s arm and tried to 
compel him to see some object through the trees. 

213 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


“Calm yourself, man!” comforted Gray, talk¬ 
ing to Coret as to a child. “Yes, I see the figure 
on the lawn. But for God’s sake keep calm! 
There’s no cause for fear.” 

“Heaven and Hell! Gray! How long has it 
been standing? It’s not the first time I’ve seen 
it! I’m as certain it’s—Oh! Who knows what it 
is?” 

His agitated whisper rasped like a shrill 
whistle. 

“Sh! Coret, Coret! Why this wasted nerve 
power! You are not yourself, I fear. There 
comes the figure now. It’s Milbrand. No reason 
for fear. There, there! Sit down, my dear fel¬ 
low!” 

A moment later a bald, wizened, little old man 
stood blinking in the flickering fire light. He 
was shown to a comfortable chair and Henri 
Coret recovered his poise. The medium sat silent, 
playing with the ends of his fingers and nodding 
assent to Coret’s rapid monologue. 

“Let me introduce a word of explanation, 
Monsieur Milbrand,” said Coret, striking into 
a speech he had evidently prepared. “For 
several years I have leaned toward your body of 
truth. I am a believer in spiritualism. The 
communication of vital truths from the dead— 
or, as you say, from the living—is not to my 
214 



The Seance 


mind impossible. But you may well realize that 
men of my mould do not take up the occult art 
without reason. To be sure, I was drawn to your 
subject through the scientific data of William 
James and Sir Conan Doyle. But back of that, 
Monsieur Milbrand, one needs a more powerful 
motive. N'est ce pas?” 

The mystic nodded, stroking his Van Dyke 
beard. The sound of his voice had not yet 
broken on the studio. 

“Quite so! Quite so!” continued Coret. 
“Frankly now, to state my case. For several 
years I have suffered from a peculiar obsession, 
Monsieur. You are, of course, familiar with 
the psychologist’s ‘Curves of Efficiency’? The 
fact that people have daily curves or plots— 
charts, as it were—of mental depression and 
elevation, of low and high efficiency? Well, sir, 
for some years—it seems forever—I have suf¬ 
fered a delusion. Or is it a reality? I know not. 
It comes always at twelve o’clock. At twelve 
noon or at twelve midnight the lowest point of 
my spiritual being is touched. At these moments, 
and often for an hour introductory, I submerge 
to depths of hell. Hell deeper than ever con¬ 
ceived by Dante in Inferno. Sometimes, espe¬ 
cially at midnight, I fear for myself. My spirit 
is suicidal. A strange incubus seems to rest up- 
215 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


on me. It drives me to the edge of the cliff and 
pushes me to destruction! Yes! Monsieur Mil- 
brand. I have told you the truth. The horrible, 
awful truth. So help me, God!” 

Henri Coret sat rigidly upright as he hastened 
through this wierd recital. Monsieur Milbrand 
gazed at him as one gazes at a lunatic, not know¬ 
ing whether to flee or remain. He glanced fre¬ 
quently from the hypochondriac and morbid 
Coret to Gray. As though for protection. 

“It is for that reason, Monsieur Milbrand, I 
have this seance at twelve o’clock tonight. It is 
for that reason I bring you here, sir. I want you 
to watch, to probe, sir, to find what is real and 
what is illusory in my midnight hour. To put 
the test on a voice I hear. To tell me if it’s of 
this world or another.” 

Coret leaned over now and grasped the arm 
of Milbrand impetuously. The medium drew 
back at first, then indulged the pallid face be¬ 
fore him. 

“Always, Monsieur Milbrand, I have believed 
there was a benevolent spirit somewhere in the 
world. A soul somewhere, in this world or out 
of it, to lead me into life and truth. Many a 
night I call on God to save the wrench and wreck 
of my mind at that hour of twelve. And many 
the night I fight it all alone, with my brain 
216 



The Seance 


trembling on the brink of lunacy. From more 
days and nights like those God save me! Give 
me truth tonight! Heaven give me Truth!” 

Coret slouched in his chair now and covered 
his face with his hands. He sobbed piteously 
like a child or animal crying for its mother. The 
medium leaned over and gently touched his arm. 

“You invite me as Doctor in the case, Mon¬ 
sieur Coret? You must to tell me more. Tell 
me all that is to be told. You should not con¬ 
ceal the slightest fact vital to the case. Eh? 
Come now! Is there something yet unsaid?” 

Both Milbrand and Gray fell back aghast now 
before the actions of Henri Coret. The storm 
of wrath he exploded was well nigh maniacal. 
His words and heavy voice fractured the night 
silence. Under the rage of his patient the 
medium cowed like a whipped dog and fell back 
into his chair. 

“What the devil you mean?” cried Coret. 
“Have I not told you enough? Do you pry into 
my affairs? Do you bring dirty feet to intrude 
into the inner chamber of my soul? What is 
locked up in my heart is my own! What is that, 
when it comes to getting in touch with the spirit 
world? It’s none of your damned business.” 

Henri Coret rose, lit a cigarette, and paced 
the floor. 


217 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


“Pardon, Monsieur Milbrand!” he said in 
calmer voice. “No offense. It is just my fool 
way. This is what I desire. At twelve o’clock 
I want you to bridge over the spirit world. A 
bridge from this room to the Infinite. I want to 
put some questions tonight. And get some an¬ 
swers. I feel the great transaction is tonight or 
never. Are you able? Are you willing? Mon¬ 
sieur Milbrand, it is tonight I must know the 
truth or go mad!” 

The chatter of a girl’s voice was heard on the 
lawn and Gray made his way to the veranda. 

“Ah! Violet! Glad you have all decided to 
come! Coret will appreciate this. Milbrand is 
here and the stage is set. Come in.” 

The lights were snapped on in the studio and 
Milbrand and Coret looked queerly over the new¬ 
comers. They included Lillian and Violet Gen¬ 
try fresh from the dance, Dunbar Gentry, and 
Gaylord Powers. In the glare of light Monsieur 
Milbrand appeared stooped of shoulders. Under 
heavy gray eyebrows his features showed sharp. 
He wore a detached and preoccupied air now and 
studied Coret closely. 

“Oh, it will be so exciting!” gushed Lillian 
Gentry. “It was so sweet of you to invite us to 
the party. Monsieur Coret. I only hope the 
spirits will talk in English. My French isn’t 
218 




The Seance 


perfect yet, you know. You must stay near me, 
Gaylord. You know me for temperament! 
How easily I get frightened!” 

“I congratulate you on getting Madero’s of¬ 
fering at the Exhibit, Monsieur Gentry,” said 
Coret to the old man. “They are pictures that 
all Europe ought to know. I want to talk with 
you some day about their exchange.” 

“Why weren’t you at the dance tonight?” 
asked Violet Gentry of the artist aside. “Have 
you no place for me these days? Is it circum¬ 
stances that shut me out? Or someone else? Come 
Raymond, you don’t seem the same! I —” 

The clock in the corner indicated a quarter to 
twelve. Coret moved nervously about and in¬ 
dicated his anxiety for the seance to begin. He 
lit another cigarette. 

“Monsieur Milbrand requests everyone to sit 
in a circle,” directed Coret, subduing his excite¬ 
ment and feverishly breathing tobacco. 

The doors of the studio were carefully closed. 
Under direction of the medium a small oval-top 
table was placed in the center. The chairs were 
pulled up as closely as possible. Powers, Lillian 
Gentry, Dunbar Gentry, Violet, Gray, Mil- 
brand, sat down in order. Coret snapped off the 
lights and occupied the seat next the medium. 

The room was in darkness except for the faint 
219 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


glow from the fireplace and the fitful light of the 
moon through the window. The fire was two 
hours old and the blaze of it had subsided into a 
quiet lava red. The high ceiling of the studio 
became the playground for fanciful shadow 
figures, conjured up by the fitful sparks. They 
danced like elves and fairies and as suddenly 
scurried away. Monsieur Milbrand sat with his 
back to the fire, Coret to his immediate right. 
The men and women alternated. 

Death-like silence pervaded the room, save for 
the queer gasps of Lillian Gentry. Monsieur 
Milbrand had reputation for inducing astound¬ 
ing effects and compelling his circle en rapport. 
For a span of minutes he sat stolid and Indian- 
like. The other six appeared hypnotized into an 
unbreathing state of body and mind. Lillian 
Gently tittered foolishly. Then long silence. 

The tenseness of this situation broke abruptly. 
Henri Coret with nervous jerk leaped to his feet. 
The movement alarmed Lillian Gentry into a 
startled cry. Monsieur Milbrand reached up 
quietly and laid a hand of restraint on Coret. 
He sat down again and regained composure. A 
piece of hot coal settling in the fireplace had 
startled his nerves. The entire company relaxed 
and nervous little laughs of relief were heard 
about the table. Then silence again. 

220 



The Seance 


After what seemed an immeasurable length 
of time the spell of preparation was broken by a 
request for all palms on the table. Fourteen 
connecting hands were laid on the oval surface. 
All minds were to be bent to the serious business 
of receiving message. One rap was for yes, two 
for no. 

Requests for information about loved ones 
came to the medium. The longings were for the 
touch of a vanished hand and the sound of a 
voice that is still. Lillian Gentry wanted to 
know if mother was happy. Violet Gentry asked 
for raps to a question reserved in her own mind. 
Gaylord Powers and Dunbar Gentry in like 
vein. The control was working intelligibly and 
the answers were unmistakable. One reply was 
a decided yes. Two others were negative. Coret 
asked nothing, as yet. 

With these activities of the circle at pinnacle 
of excitement the silence was suddenly broken 
by the solemn pounding of the clock. The 
chimes were striking with measured cadences the 
hour of twelve. Seven hearts and fourteen hands 
vibrated with the steady, monotonous rhythm of 
it. One— Two— Three— Four— Five— Six— 
Seven— Eight— Nine— Ten— Eleven— 
Twelve. Everyone at table breathed heavily 
when it was done. 


221 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


The other six seekers for light were astounded 
now by the actions of Henri Coret. When the 
last reverberations of the chimes died away into 
the night the man at the medium’s right slowly 
rose to his feet. He stood in stooping posture, 
hands held prone on the table. The chain still 
unbroken, the atmosphere of mystery deepened 
into ominous dread. 

Coret presented a grotesque figure standing 
there. His white hair was strangely whiter in 
the faint light. A fresh glow from the fire to 
the rear threw his heavy distorted shadow wob¬ 
bling on the ceiling. He stared into vacancy, 
gazing ahead as though at something unseen. 
The effect on the others grew appalling. They 
sat as though frozen. 

For an eternity of seconds Henri Coret stood 
thus. His lips moved in a painful effort to speak 
but not a sound was uttered. The counsel of 
silence continued for incalculable time. Mon¬ 
sieur Milbrand sat unmoved in a pale haze of 
light. He leaned now with head lifted, studying 
the man before him. 

Then a confused sound, emanating from the 
veranda door, broke through the darkness. It 
shot a thrill through everyone in the circle. The 
chain of hands was broken as if pulling away 
from an electric current. In the vague glow of 
semi darkness all sat in a grip of fright. 

222 



The Seance 


From the studio door sounded distinct knocks. 
Everyone sat bolt upright and peered through 
the shadows. 

“Yes! Yes!” cried Coret in hysterical tone. 
“Who is it? What is it? Speak!” 

No answer came. Then a resumption of the 
knocks. 

“Come in!” cried Raymond Gray rising to his 
feet. 

The door to the studio was pushed open. 
There in clear sight of all stood a figure in white. 
It appeared shrouded like an uncanny visitant 
from the grave. Or a spirit from another world. 
It was ghoulish, stultifying! Either blasphe¬ 
mous or divine! Hellish or heavenly! A fraction 
of a second it stood and then the door banged 
shut. 

A piercing scream sounded from the veranda! 
Then the heavy thud of a body falling to the 
floor. Lillian Gentry swooned at Power’s side. 

“My God!” cried Coret. “Ruth! Ruth! 
Ruth!” 

In a bound Henri Coret leaped across the 
studio. In the darkness his foot tripped over a 
chair and he fell headlong. The next instant he 
threw open the door to the veranda. Gaylord 
Powers stood at his side. 

There, prone on the veranda floor, lay a woman 
223 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


in dead faint. Powers leaned over to pick her 

up. 

“As I live! It’s Jane!” he cried. “The maid 
to Madame Madorie!” 

He knelt and picked her up gently. The 
lights in the studio were flashed on. The limp 
body of the woman was deposited on a divan. 
She was dressed in white kimono and had evi¬ 
dently arisen from her bed. Raymond Gray 
stood sprinkling cool water on her eyes and brow. 
Next moment she opened her eyelids and gazed 
queerly about. 

“Bless your dear heart, Jane!” cried Powers, 
kneeling at her side. “What has happened to 
you? Walking in your sleep? Or —?” 

The woman began to sob and shudder. 

“I came to see Mr. Gray,” she said simply. 

Gaylord Powers stood up and looked the artist 
searchingly and fiercely in the eye. Lillian 
Gentry did as much for Powers. Violet Gentry 
looked a volume of scorn. She curled a lip of 
disdain, first at the woman, then at Raymond 
Gray. 

“A pretty mix-up, I should say,” declared 
Dunbar Gentry contemptuously. 

“You come here to see Mr. Gray? At his 
studio?” cried Violet Gentry with all her wom¬ 
an’s wrath. “In that outfit? And at this hour 
224 




The Seance 


of midnight! Raymond, I might have expected 
as much. Only I had not thought it. I’ve al¬ 
ways been too trusting. And yet I feared as 
much. We women are all fools. We — ” 

Violet Gentry suddenly recollected herself and 
turned to find her husband searching her expres¬ 
sion. 

“You do not understand,” answered the wom¬ 
an on the divan, rising feebly on her elbow. “I 
did not come to see Mr. Gray. I came to find 
Madame Madorie. I thought she was here. I 
feared some harm to Madame Madorie. She has 
been gone an hour and I wanted to find — Ah! 
Will you give me a glass of water, please. Thank 
you, Mr Powers.” 

“Madame Madorie!” cried Violet Gentry with 
stinging scorn to the artist. “Really Raymond! 
Madame Madorie here? That woman? When 
did Madame Madorie begin to pay midnight 
visits to this studio? No wonder you don’t want 
to live at the Hotel! You —” 

Then she made another effort to conceal the 
source of her emotion. 

“Perhaps we have had enough of this,” broke 
in Dunbar Gentry. 

“A spiritualistic seance in an artist’s studio, 
eh? And now this rotten seance? What have I 
always told you, Violet?” 

225 




The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


“And what is this Jane to you, Gaylord?” de¬ 
manded Lillian Gentry in assumed mockery. 
“Or you to her? How can you expect me to ac¬ 
cept your attentions? This night has brought 
out one kind of truth anyhow. Where’s my 
cape?” 

“I don’t—you—can’t you—?” began both 
Gray and Powers at once. 

Their explanations were cut short by the sharp 
ring of the telephone on the table. All turned 
and then looked at Henri Coret. He stood 
rooted to the floor, ashen, as though listening to 
the judgment of God. He seemed paralyzed. 
The lines of tragedy in his face were fearful to 
see. 

Again the phone rang and its sound seemed to 
split and shatter the air like a ball of lightning. 
It rang short and sharp. 

“Maybe it’s Madame Madorie calling now,” 
ventured Violet Gentry. “You had better an¬ 
swer it, Raymond. Maybe she wants to explain 
her failure to come. If it’s a private conversa¬ 
tion we can depart.” 

“It’s for me,” answered Coret, shocked out of 
his trance. 

“I beg of you, don’t go. Please, for God’s 
sake, don’t go!” 

He picked up the receiver. It fell from his 
hands. Then he picked it up nervously again. 

226 



The Seance 


“Yes. Hello,” he said fearfully. “This is 
Henri Coret. Yes! Yes!” 

He held the receiver close to his ear now and 
steadied himself against the table. Raymond 
Gray stood by his side but could hear nothing. 
The rapid waves of changing expression on 
Coret’s face defied all efforts at interpretation. 
They registered the entire gamut of human feel¬ 
ing. He listened for a full minute. 

“Yes. Yes,” he said into the instrument. “I 
shall be there immediately. Yes. As you say.” 

Henri Coret closed the receiver and turned 
calmly to the rest of the party. The transforma¬ 
tion suddenly effected in his appearance was as¬ 
tounding and fascinating. He was totally 
another man. Possessed and composed with the 
detachment of a genius. He looked the moral 
giant. The alarm had gone from his features 
and in its place came a sharp and decisive pur¬ 
pose. He radiated a fierce determination and 
every move registered self control. 

“It is nothing,” he said simply, turning to the 
party and addressing nobody in particular. “I 
have a little request to make of you. I must be 
gone a few minutes into the village. I must go 
to my Hotel room. Will you all remain here 
till I return? Mr Gray will serve you drinks and 
refreshments.” 


227 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


Dunbar Gentry moved to go. 

“No! No!” cried Coret fiercely. “You must 
stay! I demand it. Please! Please! I promise 
you, friends, much is at stake. Indulge me in 
this and you will see a revelation worth a hundred 
years of life. Please, for God’s sake! Do as I 
ask!” 

There was something utterly compelling in 
Coret’s manner. Something wild and threaten¬ 
ing. All sat down obediently. 

“We shall await your return, Coret,” answered 
Gray authoritatively. “Come back in half an 
hour. You shall find us here. Gaylord, bring 
out something to steady our nerves. And some 
food.” 

Coret tossed cap on his head and disappeared 
through the veranda into the shadows of the 
lawn. 

When the sound of his feet had died away on 
the gravel path the women sat down sulkily. 
Monsieur Milbrand still silent stood queerly 
stooped before the fireplace. The maid of 
Madame Madorie reclined on the divan and ac¬ 
cepted every attention of Powers with pale 
smile. Raymond Gray poured out cordials and 
liquors. An abundance to Dkinbar Gentry. The 
women refused. Then they subsided into sullen 
waiting. 


228 



The Seance 


‘‘This is an ugly mess,” suddenly flounced Vio¬ 
let Gentry. 

“Dunbar there’s no sense of our remaining. I 
don’t care to have my name bruited with this 
shady stuff. Come — ” 

“Now, Violence!” broke in Gaylord Powers. 
“Remember, little sister, I used to call you Vio¬ 
lence. You remain here till this is cleared up. 
You owe it to us—to Raymond and me.” 

“This is no time to be funny, Gaylord,” she 
replied haughtily. “But it is time for us to go. 
Come Lillian! Dunbar!” 

“Hold a minute, Violet,” cried Gray, rising. 
“There is one thing you forget. Coret. It’s 
Coret. Coret is not himself tonight. He’s like a 
madman let loose. I know he stepped out of 
this studio with a revolver on his hip. What 
troubles him I don’t know. If you cross his pur¬ 
poses tonight—and he meets you going down the 
slope—well, you have imagination as well as I.” 

“It is the best to indulge Monsieur Coret to¬ 
night,” broke in Milbrand. “The tragedy might 
happen. Eh? Je ne sais quoi” 

The argument prevailed. For another half 
hour the party waited sullenly. The women 
sulked in easy chairs. Raymond Gray, when 
not serving cordials, paced the floor nervously. 
Milbrand gazed into the fireplace. All watched 
the door for the entrance of Coret. 

229 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


At one o’clock the telephone rang. Gray 
leaped to the receiver. 

“Yes,” he said. “This is Mr. Gray. Yes. 
Yes. It is Raymond Gray. What?” 

The artist turned to the company and spoke 
simply. 

“It is the Chamonix Prefect of Police. Coret 
is held for some serious crime. Wants to see us 
in the prison.” 


230 



The Vengeance of the Gods 


Chapter XIII. 

THE VENGEANCE OF THE GODS. 

T HE Villa Beau Sejour held out to tourists 
the utmost ultimate of gorgeous appoint¬ 
ment. It was luxury and elegance to the 
brink of enervation. The woodwork glittering 
mahogany, heavy Oriental carpets glutting into 
silence every footfall, deep upholstered chairs 
immersing blase occupants in sensuous ease, his¬ 
toric paintings of Disraeli and Richelieu, Orien¬ 
tal vases, garden palms, statuary—all devices of 
imagination were exhausted to dazzle the on¬ 
looker with a sense of grandeur. It was the 
needlepoint of artistry. 

On the night of the seance in Henri Coret’s 
studio a garcon in livery of a page stood curious 
attention in the hotel lobby. Shortly after eleven 
o’clock he noticed a party of two women and two 
men withdraw from the dance. As he helped the 
ladies to their capes one of the men addressed 
him. 

“Hello, Andre! You here? Why the last time 
I saw you we were wrestling with the Grepon. 
231 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


Here—father, Violet, Lillian! Want you to see 
the brave lad that led us up Grepon. Andre— 
my friends.” 

The robust youth smiled blushingly to the com¬ 
pliment and bowed low. 

“Yes, Monsieur Powers. It is, I climb the 
mountain in the day. Sometimes I work for the 
money at night in the Hotel. Uargent est un 
\bon passe — partout. Yes. Monsieur.” 

Gaylord Powers passed the lad a napoleon and 
smiled him adieu fondly. 

“Impossible nest pas un mot francais” he 
cried, slapping the garcon good humoredly on 
the shoulders. 

The party withdrawn, Andre looked furtively 
about. In an unobserved moment he stepped to 
the desk and took two keys from their pigeon 
holes. Then he turned with accomplished non¬ 
chalance and walked slowly up the steps. 

Arriving on the second floor the garcon 
searched the hallway. Quickly and noiselessly 
he inserted key in room number twenty and 
opened the door. He flashed on the light, paused 
a moment, then snapped the door behind him. 
With not a second’s delay he reached the tele¬ 
phone and called a Chamonix number. 

“Hello!” he said. “Madame? It is all right! 
Number twenty. Quickly. Yes, number twenty 
is Monsieur Gentry’s. Hurry.” 

232 



The Vengeance of the Gods 


The garcon paced nervously about the room 
now. He was attracted by a tray of cigarettes 
and lighted one. Then he bethought himself bet¬ 
ter of it and tossed the brand out the window. 
Ten nervous minutes more and a soft rap sound¬ 
ed on the door. Andre opened it to admit a 
woman heavily veiled and in long coat. She 
touched her fingers to her lips for silence. 

“Again, Andre, as God lives, your word of 
honor for silence. No matter what comes, you 
know nothing of this night. Do you swear? 
Sous tons les rapportsV y 

“Dieu et mon droit” he breathed heavily, rais¬ 
ing his right hand. “Madame Madorie — ” 

“Sh!” she remonstrated. “You must not to 
speak the name!” 

“It is, Madame, you save the life of Marie. I 
swear then that I do anything in all the world 
for Madame—for you. En plein jour —always, 
I say nothing of this night, chere amie! You 
should always trust Marie and Andre.” 

The woman took two keys from Andre’s hand 
and pointed him silently to the hall. Once the 
garcon had gone the movements of Madame 
Madorie took on amazing swiftness. She lock¬ 
ed the door and moved with lightning decision 
about the room. 

With gloved hands she pulled open drawer 
233 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


after drawer tossing their contents at random 
over the floor. She moved with seemingly no 
fear of detection. Every gesture breathed the 
consummate poise and self command of one in a 
trance. She stepped now into the bedroom of 
the suite and flashed a tiny pocket lamp. Next 
moment she dragged out a half dozen pictures 
from their corner. One was hurriedly selected 
from the group. The muffled figure fumbled a 
moment in the folds of her dress. With a long 
knife Madame Madorie slit the canvas from its 
frame and carefully rolled it. It was a large 
picture of a girl in dressing gown with back¬ 
ground of chintz. 

Suddenly the woman rose startled to her feet. 
She heard voices approaching in the hall. The 
veil was adjusted closer to her face and her hand 
gripped a silver handled revolver. For minutes 
she stood thus unmoving as the furniture. The 
voices died away and she relaxed, breathing 
easier. 

Now with infinite caution she approached the 
door and peered into the hallway. The door was 
closed behind and she moved with utmost un¬ 
concern to room number seven. The key was in¬ 
serted and the woman entered. 

The conduct of Madame Madorie in the room 
was guarded. She paused a moment listening 
234 



The Vengeance of the Gods 


attentively. A few seconds of groping in the 
dark and the room was flooded with light. She 
moved over to the center table and gazed curious¬ 
ly at the litter of books. She read a few lines 
from a volume on spiritualism and shrugged her 
shoulders. Then she took the stolen painting and 
spread it out on the desk. A bottle was taken 
from the dresser in the corner and perfume of 
lavender was sprinkled over the picture. The 
whole operation was enacted so quickly it could 
not have occupied ten ticks of the big clock. 

Madame Madorie lifted her veil now to reveal 
features pale with agitation. Her trembling 
hand toyed a moment with the telephone. The 
chimes in the corner slowly tolled out the hour of 
midnight. When the reverberations had died 
away the figure stood, still listening. Nothing 
was audible but the far away lilt of the dance 
waltz on the floor below. Then her crossroads 
indecision gave way to action and she called a 
Chamonix number. 

“Is—this—Henri—Coret ?” 

Her voice trembled in uncanny depth and re¬ 
cited its words in monotonous dirge. 

“Come— immediately— your— room— Villa 
—Beau— Sejour. As— you— value— your— 
life.— Yes?— I— shall— be— here.— Obey.” 

With every sign of composure she set the in- 
235 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


strument on the desk, surveyed the room, turned 
off the lights, locked the door, and descended the 
stairs to the lobby. The dance was in full swing 
and only Andre was observable at the desk. She 
said not a word, but handed him something 
adroitly as she passed, and disappeared down the 
steps of the Villa Beau Sejour into the night. 

The veiled figure paused for a moment in the 
shadows beyond the Hotel. It darted hurried 
glances up and down the Rue Rationale. Then 
the woman struck out briskly in the direction of 
the Arve. Every movement was of panther-like 
stealth and masterful decision. Crossing the 
Arve and hurrying beyond the lights of the 
Hotel Royal the cloaked figure took a position in 
the shadows. 

A few moments of waiting and a man in golf 
cap and swinging a walking stick passed through 
the Square close to the statue of Balmot. His 
huge bulk threw its shadow against the waiting 
woman and she drew back perceptibly. The 
man moved almost at a run. Once he had passed 
the woman scurried with amazing swiftness 
across the Square and knocked at the servant’s 
entrance of the Hotel Royal. A maid answered. 

“Quick, Marie!” she whispered with subdued 
cry. “The telephone! Aurez-de-chaussee . Ah 
—Marie! Quick!” 


236 



The Vengeance of the Gods 


In a moment she was whisked into a booth and 
her masculine tone calmed itself again. 

“The Prefect of Police? I tell you to send 
officers to room number seven, Villa Beau Se- 
jour. It is a robbery. The man, he rob room 
number twenty. Quick, help! Or it is too later’ 

The maid accompanied her to the door. 

“As God lives Marie! Not a word of this to 
any soul! If you love me! Come to see me to¬ 
morrow, a Vabri . Remember the vow of silence!” 

In five minutes more Madame Madorie ac¬ 
complished the slope and entered her cottage. 
Without turning on the lights she went to her 
bedroom and changed attire. Then she drew 
back the curtains and peered through the foliage 
in the direction of Raymond Gray’s studio. For 
uncounted moments she stood thus sobbing softly 
to herself. Then she moved across to a tiny bed 
and knelt among a litter of children’s play things. 
With compassion she touched the child’s face and 
drew the little body close to her own. Then she 
lifted the limp sleeper and carried it to her own 
pillow. 

For full an hour Madame Madorie tossed to 
and fro. A half dozen times she arose to peer 
through the window up and down the slope. The 
lights were out now in Gray’s studio, had been 
out for half an hour, and the moon appeared 
237 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


from behind a bank of clouds. The chimes 
struck one, then the quarter after, then one 
thirty. 

Suddenly voices were heard in the path below, 
then feet on the veranda. Madame Madorie 
could hear the door open and the voices of a 
woman and men in the outer room. The lights 
were turned on in the library. Then a woman’s 
voice called at the bedroom door. At first no 
response was given. 

“Thank God!” cried the maid, bursting into 
the room. “You are here! Oh! I feared some¬ 
thing terrible! Thank God you are safe.” 

“What is it Jane?” asked Madame Madorie 
sleepily rubbing her eyes. 

“Oh, it is something terrible tonight, Madame. 
I—I—oh, I cannot say. Come out and speak to 
Mr. Gray.” 

Madame Madorie arose hurriedly, covered her¬ 
self with long opera cape, and entered the living 
room. 

“Monsieur Gray! Monsieur Powers!” she 
cried impulsively. 

“Why is it you come here at this hour? And 
you, Jane! I cannot to understand!” 

“Have you been here all the evening, Madame 
Madorie?” quizzed Gray closely. “Your maid 
came to my cottage inquiring for you. Fright¬ 
ened us to hysterics by—” 

238 



The Vengeance of the Gods 


“En verite! Monsieur Gray. It is, I sleep in 
my bed. Once about midnight I could not sleep. 
I walk in the garden for a time. It is all. Speak 
or my mind go crazy. What is it you do at this 
wierd hour?” 

“Henri Coret is in trouble,” answered Gray. 
“Either the man is subject for an insane asylum, 
or he’s a damned villain, or—or he’s the victim of 
a conspiracy as black as hell. Broke away from 
our spiritualistic seance an hour ago and now 
he’s, charged with the sacking of Gentry’s room 
at the Villa Beau Sejour. There’s something un¬ 
canny about it. The prize picture of Marie was 
cut out of its frame in Gentry’s room and found 
in Coret’s studio. The police caught him red- 
handed with the goods. And Mr. Gentry doesn’t 
seem willing to interpose. Says let the law take 
its course.” 

The artist stood scrutinizing the face of 
Madame Madorie during this recital. The wom¬ 
an betrayed no emotion save that of an innocent 
and bewildered alarm. 

“It is late, Madame Madorie,” interposed 
Powers. “We must go. It is now nearly two 
o’clock and maybe our nerves need a little sleep 
for tomorrow. Shall see you in the morning.” 

For a half hour following the goodnight of 
Gray and Powers Madame Madorie sat on the 
239 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


great divan. She gazed vacantly ahead like one 
in a stupor or trance, her eyes as glassy as a 
crystal. The soft tone of the clock telling half 
after two roused her from her scrying. She 
pulled herself together, glanced cautiously about 
the room, stepped to the maid’s door and spoke 
a word of caution in French. Then she called 
the Villa Beau Sejour on the telephone. 

“Let me speak to Monsieur Coret, please. He 
is released from prison on heavy bond, you say? 
Yes.” 

There followed long, ominous ticks of the 
clock during which Madame Madorie trembled 
like a leaf. 

“Henri Coret? This is Madame Madorie. Do 
you wish to see Ruth tonight you may come to 
my cottage on the slope. Yes, immediately. And 
alone, please.” 

She set the receiver down, put a silver handled 
revolver in the pocket of her cape, and reclined on 
the divan nervously. She had but a few minutes 
to wait when a heavy footfall sounded on the 
porch and a knock at the door. 

“Come in!” she called without rising. 

Henri 'Coret stepped in cautiously and re¬ 
moved his cap to display a mass of gray hair 
tossed wildly over his head. With wild eye he 
peered nervously about the room like a panther 
240 



The Vengeance of the Gods 


looking for an enemy. Nervously he flecked his 
trousers with his heavy walking stick. 

Madame Madorie sat unmoved in the divan 
watching the visitor carefully from the corner of 
her eye. She was poised and accusing, like a 
Judge about to search a criminal. Then she 
turned unflinching gaze full on his face and he 
grew uncomfortable. Her eyes pierced through 
bone and marrow and brain like sharp steel. 

“Well?” he asked, trying to stir the sphinx be¬ 
fore him. 

“You ask me to come here, at this hour of 
night. What now?” 

The woman reached up and removed a mass 
of black hair from her head. Long strands of 
brown hair fell about her shoulders. Henri 
Coret fell back aghast. 

“Ruth!” he cried. “Ruth! You—My God! 
Woman. You, Madame Madorie! Ruth! No 
wonder you acted so when I came a few days 
ago! Is this another obsession of this damned 
night, or — ” 

“Sit down, sir!” she commanded. 

Her voice was sweetly feminine now and lost 
all its masculine quality and her eyes closed in a 
subtle slit. She spoke in perfect English. 

“Tonight,” she resumed calmly, “is the ven¬ 
geance of the gods. You should have been be- 
241 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


hind prison bars long ago for a reason you well 
know. Njow, Henri Coret, as God lives you shall 
serve your term for another reason. I told you 
some time it would come. You see the web of 
damning evidence? You are able to understand? 
It is now your next move, not mine. Sit down.” 

Henri Coret fell into a big chair and toyed 
with his cigarette case with distracted air. 

“Yes, have a cigarette,” she continued sarcas¬ 
tically. “You will need it to steady your nerves. 
Henri Coret, no man can do what you have done 
and not have the judgment of God fall on him. 
The hand of God is on your shoulder tonight.” 

Henri Coret now exercised French savoir faire 
on a cigarette and toyed with his eye glasses and 
the room seemed to vibrate with the flash of his 
eye. His attitude was now disdain. 

“Of course,” he insinuated, looking about, 
“you have witnesses concealed with dictograph. 
But I doubt if anything incriminating will be 
said. So this is the game you play? Have 
changed your appearance, even your voice! You 
are a very beautiful woman —” 

“Don’t start that, please!” flashed Madame 
Madorie. “Don’t start that, I beg of you. Yes, 
I have studied the art of female charm that you 
always loved so much. I have gotten my wom¬ 
an’s share of it, perhaps. So better men than 
242 



The Vengeance of the Gods 


you think. But that is neither here nor there. 
Has nothing to do with this situation. I listen, 
sir, to what you may have to say. These walls 
may have ears, as you suggest. I shall say noth¬ 
ing. It is now your turn to speak, Henri Coret. 
And I warn you not to he a fool.” 

“I don’t know whether money is powerful or 
not,” went on Coret, inspecting the luxurious 
appointments of the library. “I have lots of 
money and am liberal with it.” 

“Money?” asked Madame Madorie. “Money? 
I would rather die of starvation than touch a 
penny of your money. Hasn’t five years given 
you any soul yet, man? I call you man. You 
are—ah!— I do not name it!” 

“See here, Ruth—” 

“Don’t call me Ruth!” she flashed. “I am 
not that to you!” 

“Very well,” he answered blandly. “As you 
will, Madame Madorie. Maybe this nasty stuff 
can be cleaned up out of the courts. I merely 
suggest I have money. But if not—well! You 
know as well as I do that this is a damned frame 
up. Working on my mental obsessions, eh? I 
am a sharp one myself you’ll find. And I can 
use dirty work if need be. And if the counter 
charge of conspiracy is brought against Madame 
Madorie, that will prove interesting. The public 
243 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


will be reminded of the old sin. How do you 
like the prospect?” 

Henri Coret lighted scented cigarette and 
leered volumes of accusation and defiance. 

“You mean you will bring counter charge of 
conspiracy against me? Do you imagine a luna¬ 
tic like you could make twelve honest men be¬ 
lieve that? Conspiracy!” 

“Glad to see you interested,” continued Coret 
sarcastically. 

“Besides, there are no honest men. An honest 
man’s the noblest work of God. But an honest 
woman. Oh, well! It may be that the lines of 
proof are now converging on the villian that put 
that stolen picture in my room. And as sure 
as hell, I’m going to show to the world that some¬ 
one’s hands are dirty and bloody. All I say is, 
see to it!” 

Henri Coret glared menacingly. 

“Of course,” he continued aggressively, “this 
adjustment out of court might be possible. I 
imagine it would be advantageous to both par¬ 
ties. The dogs of war could be called off on both 
sides and the dirt hushed up. You might use 
your vampire charms on Mr. Gentry. I imagine 
he’s subject to influences like that. If you can 
influence the old roue to dismiss the case—well, 
—I have money.” 


244 



The Vengeance of the Gods 


“You have entirely misjudged this women, 
sir,” replied Madame Madorie defiantly. “I find 
you have no more brains than five years ago. Do 
you try to bully-rag me? The criminal courts 
are the best place for such matters. Lots of ven¬ 
tilation and sunlight there. You can air your 
lies before the Judge and the Prosecuting At¬ 
torneys. And yet I hold out one alternative. 
Make right your wrong. Give my child the de¬ 
cent name he deserves. You are not fit to live, 
nor to die, Coret. Not to mention wearing prison 
stripes.” 

“Very well, Madame Madorie,” laughed Coret 
rising. “You seem to be thirsty for blood. You 
are anxious to get your hands all sooty and slimy. 
Let’s go to it. Europe will have a pretty scan¬ 
dal. It’ll be a war of knives to the hilt. But, I 
warn you I have a sword that can cut damned 
deep. The cleverest man on the Continent will 
soon be at work on the case. We’re going to pry 
open heaven, hell, and earth to get the facts. My 
name cares nothing for scandal. It’s women 
that suffer there, you know. Such women as 
Mrs. Gentry and Madame Madorie. Madame 
Madorie, fortune teller of Paris! Some people 
I know are in for a sickening jolt.” 

Henri Coret moved coldly and politely toward 
the door, glaring at Madame Madorie like a 
wolf. The woman rose in a manner quite final. 

245 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


“I see you do not know what is involved, sir,” 
she pointed. 

“You have until tomorrow to form your con¬ 
clusions. If you make up your mind to do a little 
justice in the world before you die, drop into my 
cottage tomorrow evening. After the darkness 
has fallen, so none will see. Say, at twelve 
o’clock. It is your favorite hour.” 

She pointed to the door with aloofness and 
disdain. Henri Coret pointed cane at the wom¬ 
an! as he stepped upon the veranda. 

“I hope you are not threatening my life,” he 
cried. 

“I have had a gun trained on you for the last 
half hour, fool!” she broke in. “Your life is not 
worth the taking. The devil is the only being 
that could want it. Let him have it! If you have 
any soul in your shameful body come tomorrow 
at twelve. If not, trouble me no more. Go.” 

Henri Coret was stunned. He obeyed as an 
inferior before over-awing power. He closed the 
door and left Madame Madorie in silent posses¬ 
sion of the library. 

It was three o’clock when the lights were ex¬ 
tinguished in the cottage on the slope. The 
woman stood in her bedroom gazing long up the 
moonlit slope toward the studio of Raymond 
Gray. Then she snuggled up bedside the child 
on the pillow, sobbing softly, and fell into sleep. 

246 



Affaire Du Coeur 


Chapter XIV. 

AFFAIRE DU COEUR 
HE effect on the public mind in Chamonix 



at Henri Coret’s robbery of the art treas- 


ures of Dunbar Gentry was tense and dra¬ 
matic. The volume of talk it stimulated shut 
out all lesser breeds of sensation. The peaceful 
hamlet was agitated by a mental Vesuvius and 
the atmosphere was morally electric. 

The great god, Rumor, conveyed the melo¬ 
drama to Paris. In the French Capitol the scan¬ 
dal took on dimensions sufficient to out-bid all 
other clamours for public attention. Sensational 
journals heavy typed the display in front col¬ 
umns. Newspaper criers in the streets made 
capital of it for sale of their merchandise. The 
reporters had rooted up a choice scandal and no 
details were spared. Where details lacked 
groundwork of fact they were ferried across the 
muddy swamp in boats of conjecture. 

Journalists understand the situations capable 
of making a city of millions talk. The interests 
involved must be momentous, or the personali- 


247 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


ties engaged must sit in high seats. Otherwise 
the fall in not audible. A moral debacle, a tear 
dripped chimera, wierd mystery, uncanny fright¬ 
fulness, hyperemotional melodrama, sub-human 
tragedy, or super-human courage, scandal,— 
these are the bait to catch the public eye and 
tongue. The story of Henri Coret in the 
Chamonix affair, involving American and 
French women, took on international propor¬ 
tions. Front page pictures of the principals, 
histories of Coret and Gentry, Raymond Gray 
and the new protege, Madame Madorie, spirit¬ 
ualistic seances—all were bruited with abandon. 

Chamonix itself, on the morning following 
the sensational exposure, was a-hum with con¬ 
jecture. The talk was of all colors, most of it 
soot-black. 

At nine o’clock Gaylord Powers tripped down 
the slope to Madame Madorie’s cottage. He 
leaped the hedge of the garden and strode rapid¬ 
ly to the porch. 

“I have come for a stroll, Jane,” he said to 
the girl that answered his knock. “I can’t take 
a refusal. Come.” 

“I shall have to take my little ward along,” she 
answered with a smile. “Madame Madorie 
wants Archie to play in the sunshine.” 

“Very good!” he laughed. “Let’s all three be 
children.” 


248 



Affaire Du Coeur 


The day was radiant. The burst of summer 
was felt in every branch, and in the caresses of 
soft light. The three made their way out through 
the garden and over the slope to the Montanvert 
road. A half mile onward and the hotels and 
cottages were lost to view. 

“This is a lovely spot,” dilated Gaylord. “Ar¬ 
chie can play among the rocks. Here is a bench 
with full view of the peaks of Mount Blanc and 
Petit Dru. Come, dear girl, and listen to what 
my heart has to say.” 

Jane sat obediently on the rustic seat and her 
eyes and hands fell to her needle work. Oc¬ 
casionally her glance lifted a look of love to the 
playing child. The lad of five, dressed in sailor 
blue and white hat, romped among the leaves 
and rocks, chasing a toy balloon. 

“Are you an American, Jane?” asked Gaylord 
suddenly. “Who is Madame Madorie? Who 
are you? Who is Archie? I have a right to know, 
because I love you.” 

The woman’s hands stopped their needle work 
and her glance dropped to the ground. She 
crushed the dry leaves nervously with her foot 
and then looked shyly into his face. 

“I have sworn never to tell about Madame 
Madorie. She is a wonderful woman. And a 
good woman. She saved my soul once from hell. 

249 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


It was in Paris. I can never forget and I shall 
be a slave to her and Archie for life. About my 
poor self. Yes. I am an American. My home 
was once in California. I pray God I may never 
see it again. Not because California is bad. 
But memory, you know, can be hell. You love 
me, dear? I am not a woman to deserve it. Take 
your love to a better woman, Gaylord.” 

She broke into subdued weeping and hid her 
face in her hands. Gaylord Powers stooped 
gently and took her in his arms. 

“Just tell me you love me, Jane,” he caressed. 
“And that is enough. Let the past go. I talk 
of the future. My love for you is big enough to 
blot out everything. I —” 

“To blot out all” she cried suddenly and 
fiercely searching his face. “To blot out—ah!— 
the loss of all that is dearest? Man! I do not like 
a love that can forgive that! I would want a love 
that is severe on faults. You must love me poor¬ 
ly to forgive sins too freely.” 

“Madame Madorie forgives, you say,” he re¬ 
plied soothingly. 

“Mary Magdalene was forgiven and was the 
first presence in the Garden to whom the resur¬ 
rected God showed himself. Should my love be 
less than these? That’s the one thing love can do, 
forgive. I know you love me, Jane. Come!” 

250 



Affaire Du Coeur 


The child had disappeared behind a huge rock, 
chasing the balloon. Suddenly a tall man with 
broad hat and long overcoat leaped out. In a 
twinkling he snatched Archie in his arms and 
stifled his cries. A breath of chloroform was ad¬ 
ministered. The limp armful was hurried down 
a side path and a moment later the motor of an 
automobile was heard on the Montanvert road. 

Gaylord Powers and the weeping woman sat 
on the rustic bench listening vaguely to the dis¬ 
appearing machine. 

“Where is Archie?” cried Jane, leaping to her 
feet with a look of alarm. 

She ran frantically down the path calling loud¬ 
ly. Powers running beside her. 

“Oh! My God!” she cried, wringing her hands. 
“Archie! Archie! Where is my Archie!” 

Distracted she ran hither and thither, now 
down the path, now through the tangled shrub¬ 
bery, now among the rocks. Powers called loudly 
and fiercely, giving half his efforts to calm the 
woman. For a quarter mile in every direction 
they searched feverishly, fruitlessly. Weary and 
distraught they returned to the bench. Powers 
gave one last stentorian call and an answering 
cry came from down the path toward the Mon¬ 
tanvert. An instant later Andre and Marie 
came through the trees, arm in arm. 

251 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


“Mon Dieur cried Andre, sharing the look 
of alarm. “What is it you cry? What —” 

“The child! Archie. The child of Madame 
Madorie!” cried Powers. “Lost! Stolen!” 

A wild and frightened cry fell from the lips 
of Marie. 

“Uenfant! Archie! Archie! Mon Dieu!” 

“I see the man in the long coat get in the what- 
you-say—automobile,” said Andre. “I see him 
from the top of the hill. The cart it go to 
Chamonix.” 

The four stumbled and fell back over the path 
to Madame Madorie’s cottage. They broke pre¬ 
cipitately into the garden and ran upon the ve¬ 
randa. Powers arrived first and threw open the 
door. He was about to cry out and then fell 
back. 

There stood Raymond Gray with his arm 
about Madame Madorie. Dunbar Gentry and 
his wife stood opposite. In the corner Lillian 
sulked, toying with a poodle. 

“Very well, Raymond,” flashed Violet Gentry, 
if you wish an alliance with this gypsy woman, 
that is for you. You have dragged us all into a 
shameful scandal and —” 

“Not even you, Violet, can cast reflections on 
this fair woman,” said Gray firmly. “She is to 
be my wife.” 


252 



Affaire Du Coeur 


“I had talk with Coret this morning,” she ac¬ 
cused. “That woman can’t deny —” 

“Oh! My God!” cried Jane, bursting into the 
door. “Madame Madorie, Archie is gone! Lost! 
Stolen!” 

The group fell back aghast and Madame Ma¬ 
dorie swooned. Gray carried her pathetically to 
the divan. Under strong stimulant and chafing 
of her hands she came to. 

It was minutes before any measure of calm 
possessed the room. Madame Madorie sat up 
and her eyes assumed a savageness seen only in 
mother animals when their young are threatened. 
Silently she paced the room like a lioness in a 
cage. Then she broke out into hysterical sob¬ 
bing. All show of the old self possession was 
gone. She suffered as only women know how 
to suffer. 

“Powers has gone with Andre to organize 
searching parties and to alarm the police,” as¬ 
sured Gray comfortingly. “The Gentrys have 
gone as well. I feel useless here and will leave 
Jane to care for you. Dearest, I shall go and 
hunt up Coret. That man knows something of 
this and sure as death I mean to unearth it.” 

“No! No! Raymond!” remonstrated Madame 
Madorie. “You must not go to that man. Stay 
close to me, as you love me. Beside Henri Coret 
will be here soon!” 


253 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


Gray sat holding her hand and stroking it 
tenderly. His strong face looked an infinity of 
pathos and love upon the lovely creature before 
him. Under his manly tenderness the woman 
broke down and sobbed like a babe. The tor¬ 
rents of her nature let loose. The great deeps 
broke up. 

“I am sorry, Raymond,” she sobbed, “to make 
such a display. Along with yourself and my 
good name and Jane—Archie is the dearest thing 
to me in the world. If any evil befalls him, I 
shall go mad. For five years I have fought my 
fight alone. I need a strong man’s hand, I 
guess.” 

The telephone rang sharply and Madame Ma- 
dorie hastened to her desk. “Yes,” she said. 
“Yes. Yes. Come, please. Yes.” 

The woman’s back was turned to hide her emo¬ 
tions from Gray. The receiver was returned 
and Madame Madorie excused herself from the 
room. A moment later she reappeared carrying 
a silk box. She was the old Madame Madorie, 
standing proudly to full height and her face 
commanding like a General’s. She sat down 
and gazed piercingly into Gray’s face with eyes 
like flaming jets. 

“Raymond,” she scrutinized carefully. “Are 
you ready to stand by a woman to the limit of 
life and death?” 


254 



Affaire Du Coeur 


“To the limit of life and death/’ he answered. 

She opened the silk case in her lap and gave 
him a small silver handled revolver. 

“Put that in your pocket. You may need it 
soon. Henri Coret will be here in ten minutes.” 

She searched his face again as for any quiver 
of weakness. 

“Raymond, I believe you are a man. Which 
is saying a great deal. I trust you as few men 
are to be trusted. I want your ear to a story 
now. A story that will stir all the blood in your 
heart and all the tissues of your brain to believe. 
Great God! If I do not speak soon the stones 
in the street will cry out. Are you strong enough 
to hear? Yes? No?” 

With swift movement now she took the mass 
of black hair from her head and a wealth of 
brown waves cascaded over her shoulders. 

“Henri Coret, your friend, comes here in a 
few minutes. If he comes before my story is 
finished I want you to hide in my bedroom and 
listen to every word. Grip your revolver, and 
if you feel the impulse to come out, come with 
the revolver in front. Understand?” 

Her language now lost all its French accent 
and she talked plain English. 

“Seven years ago,” she hastened on, “I was a 
simple and immature girl. I played like other 
2 55 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


girls among the hills and streams of California. 
I graduated from College. My parents were 
not wealthy but rich enough to give me what I 
desired. I was happy as most girls are happy, 
looking forward to the great happiness of wom¬ 
anhood.” 

Her eyes gazed into the far away and tears 
flowed unrestrained down her cheeks. 

‘‘Then the man came. A Frenchman. Henri 
Coret. He was passing through California on 
a summer tour and made love to me. He pleaded 
for me to marry him on his estate outside Paris. 
A month later father and mother toured the Con¬ 
tinent with us and at the end of it I married. I 
knew within a month that my kind of love did 
not satisfy him. Certainly his love did not satis¬ 
fy me. He was a brute!” 

The woman shuddered and drew herself away 
from some imaginaiy object of loathing. Then 
the narrative moved on. 

“My child was born, Archie. Then the man— 
the man you are to see here in a moment—the dog 
that passes for a man—the man that is lower 
than hell—that man took on an infatuation for 
a woman in London. He drew up a damning 
conspiracy with a low cabaret hound in Paris 
and convinced the French courts that my child 
was not his. Was ever such crime on earth and 
256 



Affaire Du Coeur 


outside of hell? It was worse than murder. Why 
didn’t he creep into my room and stab a knife in¬ 
to my bosom? That were honorable beside this! 
To murder the physical body is not so bad a 
crime. So the Divine Voice said. But to destroy 
both body and soul! That man—Henri Coret— 
the man who is to soil the atmosphere of this 
room—that man wrecked my honor and the 
purity of an innocent child before the world!” 

She grew amazingly accusative now as though 
fencing an imaginary antagonist. 

“Do not speak yet, Raymond. Let me finish. 
Before I left the beast I vowed to him the ven¬ 
geance of God would fall on his head. It might 
take months, years, but fall it would if I had 
to pull down the skies. I could have killed him 
but he was not worth murder. But I knew his 
mental weaknesses. I threatened that whether 
living or dead my spirit would be present with 
him every day at noon and every night at twelve 
to damn and to curse! Oh, you will think me 
blasphemous, Raymond, to talk so. But you 
don’t know the heart of a woman. When her 
honor before the world is gone, what is left? I 
have suffered. God only knows how I’ve suf¬ 
fered. I stayed in Paris. My name in Cali¬ 
fornia was Ruth Gore. I gave up my name and 
called myself Madame Madorie. I had to earn 
257 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


a living. I refused every penny Coret gave. I 
took Archie and the maid, Jane, whom I had be¬ 
friended in a dark hour. Since then my only 
passion has been to curse Coret and to clear the 
right of my boy to live unashamed before the 
world. You know the rest.” 

Raymond Gray felt tears streaming down his 
face. He reached out arms of love to the frail 
woman and she offered no resistance. She fell 
on his shoulders and sobbed convulsively, shower¬ 
ing soft caresses over his tear stained face. He 
caressed her soft hair sacredly and kissed her 
eyes and forehead. Then again she sat erect. 

“The crisis hour of it all is now,” she said. 
“Coret knows that I stole the picture and fas¬ 
tened the guilt on him. Now he steals Archie to 
threaten me to clear his vile name. God only 
knows what the next hour will bring. All I ask 
is justice. Justice and a woman’s fair chance to 
live. Ah! there is the bell now. Go! And God 
be good to me now!” 

She pushed Raymond Gray through the cur¬ 
tains into her bedroom and calmly moved to the 
door. 

Henri Coret entered. He moved aloofly about 
the room and laid his cane and cap on the table. 
Uninvited he drew up a chair and sat down. The 
contempt and fine disdain of Madame Madorie 
dried up the fountain of tears. 

258 



Affaire Du Coeur 


“Well,” he began, toying unconcernedly with 
his watch fob. 

“Last night you invited me to come. I am 
here. As you say, walls have ears. So I defer 
to you.” 

“Coret, you are the same old brute, eh? You 
think you hold the whip hand today. Is it not 
possible to appeal to the better instincts in you? 
Do you have better instincts? You would bring 
harm to Archie? To your own flesh and blood? 
Have you no natural blood in your veins at all?” 

“Don’t begin that stuff, woman,” he answered 
sarcastically, lighting a cigarette. “I have only 
one thing to say—the robbery last night was a 
dirty frame up. If the old fool Gentry can be 
induced to withdraw charges against me then 
we can consider other matters. You know how 
to induce men to relent.” 

He breathed a brutal arrogance, calculated to 
irritate. 

“There is one dog in this room,” she finished, 
“that is going to a dog-kennel prison. He will 
go on two counts,—the robbery of Gentry and 
the abduction of Archie. And, as God lives, if 
my child has a hair of his head harmed the crimi¬ 
nal will go to the bar of judgment on high. I 
can take the consequences. I have taken more 
of this world’s sin on my shoulders than most 
259 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


women are ever called to bear. What have you 
done with my child? Would it were not yours. 
You are unworthy of any offspring. Speak, 
brute, reptile, whatever you are!” 

She rose and pointed her finger at him like a 
pistol of accusation. Then she picked up a small 
whip from the table and cut Coret across the 
face. The sting of it left a long line of red across 
his cheek and mouth. He arose like an enraged 
beast and struck the woman a staggering blow in 
the face. The next instant Coret sprawled on 
the floor and Raymond Gray stood menacingly 
above. 

“Stand up, you dog,” cried Gray, “and let me 
knock you down again. Careful, there. Another 
move to that gun and you’re dead. Let me re¬ 
lieve you of that plaything, please. I’ll be ar¬ 
senal for this crowd.” 

Coret whined and writhed on the floor. 

“There is just one thing for you to do, Coret,” 
said Gray, still covering him with the revolver. 
“Write a telegram to Paris. Put in it what God 
and this woman dictate. If it doesn’t satisfy 
justice, as sure as you’re a damned villian, you 
shall never move from this room alive. The 
police will be given the story you made a mad¬ 
man’s attack and I killed you. Now, write!” 

Gray’s words were irresistible with persuasion 
and Coret grew pale with animal fear. 

260 



Affaire Du Coeur 


“Where shall I address it?” asked Coret. 

“To Judge Randcaire, Criminal Courts, 
Paris,” answered Madame Madorie. 

Coret wrote amid awed silence and handed the 
paper to the woman. She read and nodded ap¬ 
proval. The telegraph was gotten on the ’phone 
and Coret read the following— 

“Judge Randcaire, 

Criminal Courts, Paris. 

I hereby convict myself of conspiracy 
in obtaining divorce five years ago from 
my wife, Ruth Gore, and absolve her 
from all guilt. Give publicity to this 
in French, English, and American des¬ 
patches. 

Henri Coret.” 

“Just another little duty, Coret,” commanded 
Gray. “The telephone is at your elbow. Call 
some number and get Archie—Archie Gray to 
this cottage. If any harm has come to him you 
are done as far as the light of this world goes.” 

An hour later Gaylord Powers and Andre 
leaped upon the veranda and flung open the door, 
Powers carrying Archie on his shoulders. 

“We got a motor cycle and overtook the 
machine on the Geneva road,” he cried. “Oh! 
we have with us Monsieur Coret.” 

261 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


Madame Madorie lifted the child in her arms 
and snuggled him to her bosom against the sight 
of the man under gun. Coret was commanded 
to stand up and appropriate his hat and cane. 

“We shall keep the piece of writing as a me¬ 
mento,” added Gray. “See that there is no at¬ 
tempt at retraction. Bon jour! And close the 
door softly behind you.” 

As Henri Coret moved out the door the chimes 
in the corner struck twelve noon. 

Gray turned to Madame Madorie as she re¬ 
clined heavily on the divan. She took a tiny vial 
from her bosom and breathed from it deeply. He 
sat down beside her. 

“It is a fragrance I love,” she said in answer 
to his look of inquiry. “It is lotus and I carry 
it with me always. The people of India have a 
legend that Buddha makes his throne out of 
lotus blossoms and is lost in the Nirvana of for¬ 
getfulness. I want to forget. I want to for¬ 
get.” 

Raymond pressed her hand gently and kissed 
the tears from her eyes. 

“You shall forget, dear,” he assured. “We 
shall both forget. Come and I will show you the 
way to the lotus-throne.” 


262 



The Lotus-Garden 


Chapter XV. 

THE LOTUS-GARDEN. 

A LONG the jagged shores of southern 
France romantic islands hug and skirt the 
mainland with suggestion of lovers’ ges¬ 
tures. Enchanting among those islands of en¬ 
chantment lies the Isle of Perfumes. So it is 
known to transient tourists and vagrant summer 
passersby. It lifts its bespangled head, the most 
beautiful jewel that bedecks the Mediterranean 
in those parts. 

The island constitutes one of a group the geo¬ 
logical gods in times agone cast carelessly into 
the bosom of the sea. An ancient Finn McCoul 
played here at making causeways or some mighty 
Thor rapped the cliffs with his hammer. Thun¬ 
derbolts of Jupiter and trident of Neptune add¬ 
ed their milleniums of artistry and the archi¬ 
pelago was the result. 

The Isle of Perfumes, boldest of them all, 
ventures farthest out to sea. It lifts head proud¬ 
ly against the surging tug of incoming tide and 
splits the waters into foaming breakers that 
263 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


beetle at its base. The isle stands a giant, four¬ 
square to the winds and waves, and to one ap¬ 
proaching the impression is that of a walled city 
towered and castellated for defense. Abut¬ 
ments of rock and massive ramparts extend for a 
half mile in each direction. 

On the landward side a promontory juts out 
boldly into the foam. From a birdseye view 
wings of fancy can imagine the contour of the 
island a giant’s fist doubled up and pointing an 
accusative finger at the mainland. At the foot 
of the promontory is a sheltered basin whose 
peaceful waters provide a harbor. Sloping back 
from the harbor a deep ravine penetrates to the 
heart of the island. It narrows into the shape 
of a pear with a long stem. On all other sides 
bluffs rise precipitous. 

A climb to the brow of the promontory wins 
reward of a sweeping panorama. The tongue of 
projecting rock laps up the foam crests as though 
thirsty. Beyond, the Mediterranean is unrolled. 
It stirs every high imagination. From the coign 
of vantage one observes the shore for miles. To 
the northwest the coast lifts its head and suddenly 
plunges into the sea. To the east it fades off 
into fogs of obscurity. On clear days one can 
distinguish the glittering thread of a stream 
winding its contribution to the mighty sea. 

264 



The Lotus-Garden 


The spot is awe-inspiring to a poet. The vasty 
spaces stretch beneath erne’s feet. The waters lap 
the rock with liquid note and the elements sing in 
blended chorus. The purple softness of sky and 
sea is tender with brooding mercy. The infinite 
distances stretching into the limitless give ever- 
changing playground for the fancy. Lights 
and shadows, vocal powers of nature, scurrying 
clouds, stab the senses with mystic miracles. 

On stormy days the grandeur of the Isle of 
Perfumes takes on added awe. The embattle- 
ments of defense breast the elements to provide a 
welcome of retreat. Stinging winds from the 
west lash the island mercilessly with whips. The 
booming waters are heard below heavy as God’s 
artillery. 

When Raymond Gray brought Ruth and 
Archie Gray to the Isle of Perfumes it was ful¬ 
someness of Autumn. Nature was at her best 
with gardens and terraces of flowers flourishing. 
The lowlying shrubbery made a bower of colors 
like a marvelous floral exhibit. Vivid scarlets 
and greens, brilliant yellows and browns, rivalled 
the cascades of bloom of the tropics. Great beds 
of dahlias and verbenas, lotus and chrysanthe¬ 
mums, blended their fragrances into the velvet 
softness of magnolia. A rich carpet of crump¬ 
ling leaves, not yet driven seaward, covered the 
glades. 


265 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


One human habitation in form of a bungalow 
cottage crowned the rocky ledge. It stood part¬ 
ly sheltered in the rock crevices, partly exposed 
to the ocean view, a bird’s nest of retreat from 
the winds of heaven. A flight of winding steps, 
chiseled in the face of the rock, precipitous as a 
ship’s ladder, led from the cottage down to an 
improvised landing. 

Raymond Gray sat on the cottage veranda 
painting the transfiguring colors of a sunset. 
The bosom of the ocean was turned into molten 
crimson and the clouds on the horizon jetted with 
flame. The day had been one of rare warmth for 
early October, a day of golden sunshine and 
play. Now the sun was dropping its ball of fire 
into the West. 

The sound of music in the cottage ceased; the 
lilt of a French love lyric died away; and a light 
foot tripped out upon the veranda. 

“Hello, you little rogue!” laughed the artist, 
refusing to look up. “Don’t you push my arm. 
This splatter of gold on the ocean lasts only a 
moment. Ah! I can’t mix colors to match it. 
There. It is gone! Have you given Andre and 
Marie their lessons in English?” 

“The villians skipped class today and went for 
a ramble among the rocks,” answered the woman. 
“What is that wonderful something I see in your 
266 



The Lotus-Garden 


painting, Raymond? Is it in my own eyes or in 
the canvas?” 

“I guess it’s in the Isle of Perfumes,” he re¬ 
plied. “And tomorrow we leave our Eden and 
go back to America to our own California, for 
keeps. And look! There they come now!” 

Gray rose excitedly and pointed his finger out 
to sea. A tiny motor boat a quarter mile away 
was rounding the rocks and nosing against the 
choppy waves. It made for the landing on the 
leeward shore. Fifteen minutes later it scraped 
the sands at the foot of the steps. 

“An hour later,” laughed Ruth, “and you 
would have had a hard time of it. This strong 
north wind smells like a storm. Look how foam 
capped the waves are!” 

“The shore feels good to me!” replied Gaylord 
Powers helping Jane from the boat. “Come on, 
kiddies. Up the steps.” 

When they snuggled down in the seclusion of 
the bungalow Andre and Marie were preparing 
the dinner. A sleepy child of five was tucked 
to bed. Raymond Gray carried in wood for the 
big fire. When dinner was out of the way the 
men blew rings of smoke and the women chat¬ 
ted merrily. 

“The wind is cutting antics tonight,” said 
Powers. “Hear the boom of those waves on the 
267 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


rocks. It shakes the bungalow. An awful night 
for a ship tossing on the rough sea.” 

Powers opened the door. The violence of the 
wind thrust him hack. A dash of rain was blown 
half way to the fireplace. The entire party don¬ 
ned heavy coats and soon stood on the veranda. 
They faced the cutting teeth of a gale, peering 
seaward. 

It was a sight to shake the soul. From the 
zenith to the southern horizon the skies were clear 
and stars twinkled myriad lights. The northern 
half of the heavens was overcast with scurrying 
clouds. Through the fast fleeting banks of 
blackness the moon occasionally sent down fin¬ 
gers of light. At fitful intervals the lightning 
flashed. Clangorous vibrations of thunder rolled 
and rolled their blasts over the waters. The air 
was hurled along at fifty miles the hour. The 
turbulent roar of the waters below added to the 
tomadic whirlwind above set one giddy. The 
massive beauty and grandeur gave the kinetic 
ecstasy of a spinning top. The little group hud¬ 
dled close searching the distance. The din of the 
artillery below rendered talk useless. The wind 
screamed like shrapnel and the sea grew white 
like a monster foaming at the mouth. 

When they sat before the fire again Ruth Gray 
set a tiny table and chair before them. A great 
glass ball was produced and a scarlet box. 

268 



The Lotus-Garden 


“I am Madame Madorie,” she said with strong 
French accent. 

“I shall read your fortunes tonight.” 

All laughed and snuggled down comfortably. 

“My art is a strange one,” she began. “You 
think it strange we should read the future or the 
past. N J est ce pas? I think it strange we should 
not. You see the crystal here? Always in the 
history of the world it has moved destinies. Did 
not God gaze into the void at creation and see 
the universe unroll? The Egyptians gazed into 
polished basalt, the Greeks into obsidian mirrors. 
I am the Doctor of Fragrance. I know all the 
whiffs of fragrance, the myriad odor waves that 
come to the soul. The bouquet of rue or cassia, 
of jasmine or heliotrope, of iris or violet. I have 
not the words. Oh! Je ne sais quoi” 

The woman opened the scarlet box with deft 
fingers, laughing whimsically the time. 

“If we know all the fragrances the soul loves, 
we can read the destiny,” she continued. “Eau- 
de-cologne, otto-of-roses, ladslove—ah! —they 
carry the spirit out of time into the unbeginning 
past and the unending future. Monsieur 
Powers. Sit down.” 

Gaylord Powers laughingly obeyed. 

Her soft hands felt over his skull mystically 
and when she sat before the crystal he smiled 
269 




The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


sheepishly into her face. Madame Madorie sat 
imperturbable, sphinxlike. 

“Your hands, please. Now over. They are 
strong hands. The fate line—ah—you are ven¬ 
turesome. Rash. Keep your eyes shut please. 
This fragrance I hold is from a Japanese flower. 
Breathe it in deeply. Do you like it? It is eu¬ 
calyptus and pelargenium and thyme. Aloysia 
and yulan of China. Now I breathe in and gaze 
into the crystal. I see a young man climbing a 
mountain. He goes up with others. He is un¬ 
afraid. One of his companions is about to fall. 
Ah! Terrible! The young man gives his hand 
and the friend is saved. Ah! Impossible nest 
pas un mot francais! The young man comes 
down and—ah! —a young woman! I cannot see 
more today. The crystal is cloudy. Oui, Out” 

“If you can’t see more I can,” said Powers 
gleefully going over to Jane on the divan. 

“Monsieur Gray, next,” beckoned the woman 
playfully. 

Raymond Gray sat down, his dark eyes flash¬ 
ing ill-concealed humor. 

“I say a word to you about the perfumes. I 
have here bergamot and syringa, musk and haw¬ 
thorn, to invigorate the spirit. You will close 
your eyes. Here is lavender and tamar-el-hindi. 
Also the lotus. The legends of India say it was 
270 



The Lotus-Garden 


used by Mary in the alabaster box to anoint the 
feet of the Lord. You like it? N’est ce pas? 
Close the eyes! Now for your fortune.” 

She leaned over and kissed him and slapped 
him playfully on the cheek. 

“Monsieur Gray, go back to your comer. 
Nlow I shall read my own future.” 

She took a soft white bag from the scarlet box 
and sat down before the crystal. 

“In the past I have had a great fear. Fear. 
Is it not our deadly enemy? Is it not the child of 
hell? It is a liar and a murderer. The savages 
fear. Little children fear. All fear. In fear 
did my mother bring me into the world. In the 
past I fear death, I fear life, I fear God, I fear 
man, I fear tomorrow. Now I have the great 
hope. I smell now the Ilang-Ilang. It is the 
fragrance of joy. To be happy—it is mine. To 
be happy—it is mine. To love the flowers, the 
poor, the mountains, the birds, the little children. 
Then there is God. And—ah!—I see a man. He 
is a real man. I cannot see more today.” 

Her head fell into her hands on the table be¬ 
side the crystal. Next moment Raymond Gray 
picked her up and kissed away the tears. 

“I think the storm is over,” said Gaylord 
Powers, returning from the window. 

The party of four stepped upon the veranda 
271 



The Lotus Throne of Nirvana 


and looked seaward. The heavy waves still 
tossed against the rocks but the gale had sub¬ 
sided. A rainbow curtain of light lifted on the 
far horizon and the moon stood forth. Raymond 
Gray leaned over and whispered to the woman 
at his side. 

“Isn’t it a sweet fragrance the winds blow 
from the garden?” 

“Yes?” she answered simply, “it is the aroma 
of lotus.” 


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